Make Your Move
by Blood Red Queen
Summary: Six months after the events of 'An Eye For An Eye', Sherlock finds himself once more into Moriarty's sinister game.As the clock ticks and the blood flows, can Sherlock defeat his nemesis once and for all? And can John, and his sanity, survive? Please R R
1. Miss me?

_So, here it is, as I promised you, the sequel to 'An eye for an eye'. It's not essential if you haven't read it, but it helps. Hopefully I won't suffer from 'sequelitis' and make it bad. If I ruin it in any way, feel free to slap me with a dead cod._

_I was incredibly happy to discover our favourite boys are handcuffed together at some point during the second series; BRING ON THE BONDAGE JOKES!_

_..._

'What's that?'

'It's a wonderful invention called food, we little people need it to survive. You're nearly falling down as it is. Go on.'

'I don't want it.'

'Just eat it you skinny lizard.'

Sherlock glared at John over the pile of rice the doctor had just dumped onto his plate. The latest case had really taken it out of them both, a missing little boy had Sherlock literally clutching at straws. John couldn't stand much more of this, his boyfriend's flesh was practically melting off of him. It had been the first really challenging case in six months, the first real case since John had been abducted by Terry Markin. He was now used to the brown eye patch over his missing eye, although he missed the ability to wink.

'John I'm fine.' Sherlock whined. John looked him dead in the face.

'Sherlock mate, please, I'm not asking you as your boyfriend, I'm asking you as your doctor. You need to eat something.'

Sherlock heaved his most melodromatic 'I'm so terribly put upon' sigh, and dragged the plate towards him. John watched him shovel forkfuls of rice into his mouth with barely concealed enthusiasm. Although it wasn't entirely beneficial to Sherlock's health that he hadn't been sleeping, John had to admit the slightly rumpled look still made Sherlock devastatingly good looking.

When at least three quarters of the rice had been demolished, Sherlock sat back and exhaled.

'So, are you going to the practice tomorrow?'

'Yeah, ' John replied, refilling Sherlock's coffee mug, 'It turns out I actually have to show my face to get paid.'

Sherlock's lips twisted upwards into a smirk. Then his features settled into a stressed expression, he ran his hands through his hair erratically, making it stand on end.

'I just can't crack this John. The boy's family-nothing gives me any sort of clarity. I'll get through it, I know I can! It's just so...urgh.' He finished, slapping the table pathetically.

'Hey, hey, easy...' John soothed, pushing Sherlock's curls off his forehead. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes as John continued smoothing down the wispy black hair.

'You'll get this, I know you will.' He said softly, pressing a small kiss to his boyfriend's temple. 'You've got the greatest brain in England, you just need to rest.'

Sherlock relented, allowing himself to be pulled towards the sofa and found his head nestled in John's lap, the good doctor still stroking his hair.

It was only when he heard Sherlock's soft snores did John allow himself to relax. It was a rare moment when John could muse and become immersed in his own thoughts and Sherlock wasn't able to see it.

Six months. Had it really only been six months? It was even harder to believe it had been nearly two since he'd met the sleeping man in his lap. The dreams, once haunted by gunfire and sounds of war were replaced with images of skulls and a grinning sculptor. Although it had certainly been a perk to wake, clammy and shivering, from a nightmare to find Sherlock's gangly limbs wrapped round him. Secretly, he was glad that life in Baker Street hadn't radically altered since he and Sherlock got together. Sherlock was still as acerbic, ungrateful and demanding as ever, but somewhere, hidden amongst it all, John knew about Sherlock's feelings. The hadn't actually 'gone the distance' yet. John still wasn't quite ready for that. He'd told Sherlock that what happned to him with Markin wouldn't go away for a while. Thankfully, Sherlock had understood that and not once pressed John or pushed him too far. For all his antagonism, Sherlock was an honourable boyfriend really.

The man in question made a small _sngfl _noise and shifted slightly in his sleep. John didn't want to move him, despite the fact his leg was threatening to fall asleep under the weight of Serlock's head. It felt good, all this stupid couple-y stuff, it seemed almost normal in Sherlock's madcap world. Luckily his parents, having already accepted Harry as homosexual, readily accepted it in John. His mother had a little moment of grief over the loss of any grandchildren but had quickly come around. What John hadn't forseen was Harry's dislike for Sherlock, and the fact she'd taken it upon herself to blacken his name at every opportunity. It hadn't been easy, but John had attempted to smooth over Harry's sentiments and restore Sherlok's character in his family's eyes. During one particularly acidic phone conversation Harry had spat that he and Sherlock wouldn't last. That Sherlock would take what he wanted and leave John stranded. That had hurt, mainly because it had hit John's own niggling doubt that what he had was too good to last. Deep down he still thought Sherlock was too good for him, and that their crazy existence would cause problems.

But, when the world's most amazing man lies next to you in the dark, whispering words of comfort, you couln't help but think that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

...

The practice wasn't especially busy. A few elderly people were coughing obnoxiously in the corner, as if competing as to who was sicker. One harassed looking woman was struggling to keep her three fidgeting children under control and a hooded teenager whose head was bobbing in time to a tinny pop tune issuing from their headphones. None of the patients acknowledged him as he passed but he got a smile and a 'good morning' from Sarah. Things between them had been a little awkward at first, which was understandable, seeing as her boyfriend revealed himself to be homosexual (well Sherlocksexual anyway). She'd recently found love in a new man called Colin, a man of Irish descent who reminded John of a cross between a sci-fi professor and some sort of demented leprechaun.

Once in his office John plonked himself into a chair and pressed the buzzer for his first patient:

'Mary Morstan to Room Five with Dr Watson please. That's Mary Morstan to Room Five.'

Mary Morstan was a cheerful little soul. Eight years old with strawberry blonde hair and sky blue eyes the size of pound coins. She practically bounced into the room, dragging her exasperated mother, Cecilia, by the hand. John could see a small smear of chocolate on her jeans. Little Mary had asthma, this was just a routine checkup. John checked her breathing and heartbeat through the stethoscope, all good here.

'Are you a pirate?' Mary piped up suddenly, poining at the eye-patch. John smiled slightly. You had to admire the innocent frankness of children. Her mother, however, gasped in shock.

'Mary!' She admonished, John waved his hand airily.

'It's alright, she's only asking what you were wondering about anyway.'

The woman opened her mouth warily, then closed it guiltily. John smiled at Mary and shook his head. He did however, face her in the eye and leaned in conspiratorially;

'My eye was stolen by a very bad man.'

The little girl shivered, looking positively delighted with the ghoulish fascination everyone had for the macabre. John felt a little paternal style twang in his chest as she seemed to hang onto his every word.

'Why?' she whispered, her eyes wide with wonder. John paused, memories teetering on the edge of his tongue. The dark, the cold, the pain...there was no way he could inflict that upon a child. He scrabbled for a story to tell her, one that wouldn't freak out her mother mostly.

'He..er...didn't like me very much.' He settled for, the mother glanced at him, very obviously _not _fooled.

'I like you.' Mary said soberly. John smiled at her, receiving a wide grin in return.

'Thank you Mary, I like you too.'

The appointment was quick, and for some small reason, John was a little disappointed to let the sunny little girl go.

...

When John finally opened the door into 221B he found Sherlock in the usual posistion of 'flopped with practised carelessness' on the sofa. But in his suit. Odd.

'Hey, I'm home.' John said unnesesarily. Sherlock stretched his arms out languidly.

'We found him' he said. He could only mean the missing boy. John felt a little trickle of relief the child had been found. But...why wasn't Sherlock more triumphant? Relieved? Glad?

'You did? Congratulations.' he tried, smiling. Sherlock glanced at him coldly then swept himself off the sofa.

'This was with him.'

John took the small photo Sherlock pulled from his pocket. What he saw made his blood run cold. It had been taken at a crime scene and the missing boy lay just off the centre, quite obviously dead. Judging by the milky glaze to his eyes he'd been dead awhile. His mouth hung slightly open and his limbs were limply strewn at odd angles. A dark scarlet line across his throat signified how the poor little mite had met his end. John felt sick, clammy that someone could do this. But what really made his stomach turn was a spidery message scrawled messily on the floor next to the boy, written in blood:

_**HEY SEXY, MISSED ME? M x**_

...

_What in the name of Cthulu have I done?_

_Oh, just to clear something up; I do not HATE Sarah. I really quite like the character, seriously. She was just inconvienient for my ship._

_And no, John is not gonna go all paedo, he just likes kids okay? Phew, glad we sorted that out._

_Hopefully I see you lovely peeps soon x_

_Next chapter: Skeletons in the closet, literally. Well, Baker Street is a magnet for the dramatic..._


	2. The Nightmare in the Wardrobe

_Alrighty, so far so good :) Moriarty's being a nuisance, our favourite boys are getting stressed and I'm squeeing with delight at the fact Benedict Cumberbatch sings 'Come fly with me' on radio series 'Cabin Pressure'._

_First 'Sherlock' series: 2010. Seond series: 2012. TWO FREAKING YEARS? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME BBC?_

_Sorry, I just screamed at you all, ignore me XD_

_..._

Sherlock watched the colour drain out of John's face. The hand holding the photograph trembled slightly as John took in the message. Their eyes met, and Sherlock could see John looked as sick as he felt.

'Him?' John whispered.

Sherlock nodded grimly, 'I'm afraid so.'

'But..._him _him?'

'John I think you covered it with the first 'Him?'.'

John thrust the photograph back at him, which he took and shoved back into his trouser pocket. Myroft had told him Moriarty was still at large in other parts of the world, but surely he wouldn't so stupid as to come back? Sherlock had made it quite clear to the madman what would happen if he returned. (a threat of the 'Come near us again and I'll rip your lungs out' variety.) Now he was back, not only back, but openly _teasing _him. Sherlock, for one, was not bloody going to stand for it. Moriarty could piss off and leave him and John alone.

'Does Lestrade know?' John asked shakily, interuppting Sherlock's thoughts. He nodded.

'Mycroft too. My dear brother's annoyingly offered to give us "special" protection.'

'How nice of him.' John murmured. Sherlock took hold of John's fingers and gave them a light squeeze.

'Let's not get too worried-'

'Worried? He's just killed a _child _Sherlock! This man hired a serial killer just to get your attention! I don't wanna go through that again...'

'John it's alright.' Sherlock lied, squeezing John's hand harder, bringing his other hand to touch John's face. 'I won't let that happen.'

John didn't look too convinced.

...

Mycroft was not having a good day.

Couldn't this blasted country cope for _five _minutes without him holding it's hand? Not only was there a frightful scandal within parliament (Mycroft had had to pay an alpaca rearer nearly four million to hush it up) but other powerful countries were pressuring them all to switch to another powerful country's side, and his coffee was cold.

Sighing, the elder Holmes leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. Now he had his little brother's psychotic criminal stalker to deal with.

_Maybe I should go on holiday, I hear Spain's nice this time of year..._

The office door opened to reveal his assistant, who was going by the name 'Marianne' now, bringing him a file of delicate matters.

'Sir, can I say something?' she asked timidly, Mycroft looked up.

'Fire away dear.'

'You don't look well. Are you alright?'

Mycroft opened his mouth to deliver a well practiced 'Of course I'm alright, but thank you anyway' but found he couldn't. He'd have to find some new staff, wide brown eyes looking at him with concern was incredibly distracting. With a sigh he shrugged his shoulders in a non-commital fashion. She was not his therapist, and he certainly did not need to whinge about his problems, he had a country to run.

Suddenly Anth-_Marianne_, did something he never expected. She hugged him.

It was brief, but Mycroft was definetly enveloped in two arms that had a reassuring warmth and pressure to them. He was so shocked he almost said her real name. After a few seconds the pressure was gone, she picked up his cup of cold coffee.

'I'll go refill this for you.' she said simply and turned to go.

'Marianne.' Mycroft barked sharply, she turned back in surprise.

'Thanks.' he finished lamely. There was a flash of smile, and she was gone.

Humanity was rubbing off on him, no wonder Sherlock was in such a mess. It was baffling as to how a smile or a word could dull the brain so much. Sherlock was a smooth, cold thinking machine, now all it took was a word from John Watson and his little brother would become stupid. With Moriarty back, both men were in danger, that much was certain. If Sherlock had any hope of ending things with Moriarty, he'd have to keep his emotions in check.

...

John stared at the steam rising from his coffee mug. Sherlock sat opposite him, fingers flying over the keypad of his phone. The two of them were sat outside a coffee shop, it's decorated awning making little rustling sounds as the wind trickled through.

John heard Sherlock sigh and shift his weight in the plastic seat. 'You've got questions.' he said simply, once again showing that uncanny ability of reading John like a book.

'Er...yeah.' John admitted, _like you can deny it to his face_, 'Just one, if your crazy 'nemesis' is showing up again, why was your first course of action to drag us to a cafe?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a 'oh please' fashion; 'Why not?' he shrugged.

'Oh I see,' John teased, 'This is you freaking out.'

'Excuse me I am not _freaking out_. I am merely showing that we will not be intimidated.'

'We?' John blurted, 'Speak for yourself, I'm terrified of the bugger-'

'Which is exactly what he wants.' Sherlock interjected smoothly, sipping at his cup of espresso, 'I for one don't want to give him the satisfaction. It's all a game with him remember? The message was just taunting us.'

'Couldn't he just go _na na na na naaaaa_? Why murder a child?'

'Why strap you to a bomb? I don't know how his depraved mind works.'

John took that to mean the end of the conversation. Everything about Sherlock was sharper than usual, like he was a fox on the alert for the sound of dogs. Although John himself hadn't been totally calm about it either, he'd been jumpy ever since they left Baker Street, half expecting to find Moriarty just behind his shoulder.

_Let him come, I want to give him a piece of my mind._

'John?' Sherlock's voice broke through his thoughts, John glanced at him as he felt smooth fingers stroke the back of his hand. It wasn't often Sherlock did such a blatant display of affection in public, and though it wasn't entirely unwelcome, John felt rattled.

'Be careful okay?' Sherlock said.

'I'm always careful, you know me.' He smiled back, Sherlock didn't seem amused. If anything, his slight frown increased.

'Please John, I'm not joking. I know I'm an unfeeling bastard at times, but I'll be most put out if Moriarty did you in.'

John laughed, causing a small smile to play across Sherlock's face. 'You know what? I don't think I'd be too happy either.'

_Too right you won't._

'Shall we get back?' Sherlock asked, and for a split second, John swore he could see an honest-to-God glint of mischief in those silver eyes.

'Yeah why not?'

...

It was a wonder Sherlock managed to open the door at all with his hands eagerly finding their way inside John's shirt. John, for his part, only managed to keep them from _falling _through the door through sheer force of will. Not that Sherlock minded, succumbing to the law of gravity would have seriously hindered him in his task of taking John's clothes off. John steered them both onto the sofa, doing something with his tongue Sherlock was surprised was even physically possible. A few of the scars on John's torso had healed in the months they'd been together, so they'd been able to get over most of John's insecurities about his appearance. The word 'WORTHLESS' was still there. Sherlock had long since learned to be blind when it came to John's scars, but he could never quite get John to take off the eye-patch. Despite Sherlock's numerous insistances that the patch made him look particularly rugged and sexy, John would not get rid of it, not even for him.

John's hands ran through his hair, Sherlock vaguely wondered how John would react if he ever shaved his head.

Then, to the massive disappointment of both of them, the phone rang.

The two men broke apart, Sherlock lying in a undignified heap on top of John, who let out a throaty chuckle.

'I hate technology.' He breathed. Sherlock grunted in response and heaved himself off of the sofa with supreme effort. The phone cut through the flat with a shrill ring, tearing the still air in two.

'Alright, alright I'm coming!' Sherlock growled, John smirked.

'Are you now?'

Sherlock picked up a cushion from John's chair and threw it at the laughing man. Picking up the phone he endeavoured to rebutton his shirt at the same time, not the easiest of tasks in hindsight.

'Sherlock Holmes.' He said, wathing John pull himself into a sitting posistion.

'Sherlock? It's me.'

'Lestrade.' Sherlock informed the room in general. John's smile transformed into a slightly worried frown. Jering his thumb in the direction of his room John mouthed 'I'll go change' and gestured at his rumpled appearance (all Sherlock's handiwork). Sherlock nodded and switched his attention back to the phone.

'What's wrong?'

'Just checking to see you're ok. Some of our CCTV team think they saw a man fitting Moriarty's description around your area of London.'

Sherlock's grip on the phone tightened. 'Are you sure?'

'It's not concrete, but I just wanted to let you know. And Sherlock-'

Whatever Lestrade had to say was cut off as a blood curdling yell ripped through the flat. It had come from John's room.

'John?' Sherlock called, dropping the phone to the floor. It took less than fifteen steps for Sherlock to run upstairs to his boyfriend's bedroom.

'John?' He called again, pushing the door open. What met his eyes made him freeze for an instant.

John was on the floor, along with a rotting corpse.

At a glance, Sherlock guessed the body as that of a male in his mid fifties, and had fallen on John (had been hidden in the warbrobe possibly).

An overwhelming stench filled the entire room, causing Sherlock to gag and clamp his hand over his mouth and nose for a second to steady himself. The corpse itself was a gruesome spectre. Moist slack flesh was falling away from the bones, the mouth slack and eyes disintergrating down the cheeks. The skin was of a ghastly pale pallour. Patches of bone were exposed due to the skin being chewed away by rodents and were mottled grey. Long greasy streaks were staining John's clothing as the juices of putrification seeped from orifices and gashes in the skin. John's hands were scrabbling to push it off himself, his face etched with horror.

Sherlock was at his side in an instant, pulling the body off and kneeling next the recoiling John.

'John! It's alright! It's me!' He said hurriedly, wrapping his hands around his boyfriend, who continued to gape at the hideous sight. Both men were breathing harshly, and Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat thump against his own.

For a terribly long moment, neither of them moved, staring at the rotted heap on the floor. Sherlock drew a large breath, despite his nose telling him it was a most unwise thing to do.

'Any other ex-boyfriends I should know about?' he asked casually, straightening his collar.

John craned his neck to look at him, an incredulous look plastered over his face, then emited a shaky laugh.

'N-no, I think that's the last one.'

Sherlock sighed and pressed his forehead into John's arm, who sagged against him, closing his eyes.

'Lestrade.' Sherlock snapped suddenly. John lanced at him, confused.

'Huh?'

'Lestrade. I left him on the phone.' He explained, scrabbling to his feet. The corpse's eyes stared at the ceiling blankly and Sherlock found himself fighting his gag reflex, a novel experience. Pausing briefly to help John up, Sherlock bounded back to the phone where Lestrade's voice was still issuing, panicked from the phone.

'Sherlock? SHERLOCK WHAT'S HAPPENING?'

'It's alright, still alive.' Sherlock said curtly, sweeping the phone to his ear. The relieved sigh was thunderous from the reciever.

'Thank God. John?'

'Also alive.'

'What the fuck just happened?'

Sherlock glanced to John who was emerging, ashen faced and nauseous, from his room. The stench of the body was now rapidly filling the entire flat.

'Lestrade we have a problem.'

...

Hours later, John sat in the bath, rippling the surface of the water with the tips of his fingers. Lestrade and the forensics team had eagerly inspected the nightmare that fell from his wardrobe, packing it away in a bodybag. It would take a little time for the DNA tests to reveal the identity of the poor sod.

Those few seconds burned in the forefront of John's mind. He remembered opening the wardrobe door to look for a cleaner shirt then that...that _thing _tumbling out and landing squarely on top of him. It had taken a few seconds to register what exactly had occured, but when he did, John had found his brain hadn't been able to do anything but scream. He thought he could still feel it on his skin. He needed the water to try and wash it away. What had hit him most was the smell, he knew that smell. He had smelt it in Afghanistan, when he saw a mass open grave. It had a funny way of burning at the back of the throat, stining and pungent.

John heaved a sigh and splashed a handful of water over his head.

The bathroom door squeaked open, John didn't even bother looking up as Sherlock padded his way to the side of the bath and perch himself on the edge.

'Are you alright?' came the familiar deep purr. John glanced at him.

'Of course I'm alright. How about you?'

Sherlock had a very odd expression on his face; it seemed a mixture of pity and relief. It was not a facial expression John was accustomed to seeing.

'Sherlock?'

Suddenly two arms encircled John's damp shoulders and pulled him to Sherlock's side, his wet hair soaking a shirt that probably cost more than John's entire wardrobe.

'Sherlock your shirt-'

'Gets wet in the wash anyway.' Sherlock interjected. 'I'm sorry.'

John nearly choked. 'What? What for? You didn't stuff a body in my wardrobe.'

Sherlock did an odd little huff-laugh thing. 'Poor John, will you never have a normal week?'

'Living with you? Never.'

The water was stone cold before either of them moved again.

...

_I really must apologise to John. The more I love a character, the more I will abuse them._

_Next chapter: Who was the body in the wardrobe? And John meets Ruard, Sherlock is embarrased._

_See ya next time x_


	3. Arthur Ruard's Bookbinding Service

_Ok ok I hate my brain. At 11:55 pm I really really wanted to sleep, then sat bolt upright going 'Is 'smelt' even the right term?' So, after an internal struggle for grammatical correctness, slumped back down and thought 'Screw it'. Any errors you see forthwith are entirely down to my ever increasing stupidity. I was also chugging this chapter out at around the rate of a sentence a day, work's getting kinda hectic._

_Also, rewatching the very last scene of the first series, I wondered if anyone else found Andrew Scott's voice incredibly sexy too? Or is it just me?_

_..._

Three days later, John idly thumbed the pages of his oft-read copy of _Wuthering Heights_, Sherlock had been spot on when he'd deduced it was John's favourite book. The pages were of a faded yellow and the binding was deteriorating before his very eyes. Valiantly John tried to keep the pages together, Sherlock eyes him from his usual spot on the sofa.

'Why don't you just get another copy?'

John shrugged, 'I've had this since I was fourteen, it's kinda...special you know?'

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow, 'So you'd rather not have it replaced?'

'No.'

Sherlock shifted posistion and fiddled in his pockets. Making little mumbles like 'where is the damn thing?' and 'I know it's here somewhere' he finally withdrew a small white business card.

'An acquaintance of mine dabbles in the bookbinding business.' He said mildly, standing up and handing it to John (about two pages fell out of the whilst John took it), John looked at the neat red typing, which read:

_Arthur Ruard; Bookeeper and Bookbinding service._

John stared at the name. Ruard...where had he heard that name before? His memory stirred with the effort of trying to grasp the name's importance. He'd heard it before, he knew it...

_'Ruard?'_

_'Lucky he owed me a favour, without his help I may never have found you.'_

'Is this?-' he began, Sherlock nodded matter-of-factly.

John smiled and pocketed the card, 'Maybe I'll go now'. Hopefully he didn't seem too eager to meet a man who had been a vital part in saving his life. Sherlock didn't give any sign of having figured out John's motivations. Instead, he idly picked stray pieces of lint from John's jumper, John didn't mind, it was little domestic gestures like that that reminded him Sherlock wasn't totally a robot.

'I'll drop by if you do, I'm changing our locks today.'

John blinked in surprise, 'Beg pardon?'

Sherlock didn't reply immediately, but continued fiddling with the wool, 'You seem surprised?'

'Well yes Sherlock, you've just informed me that you're changing the locks!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as though John was being obtuse on purpose. 'It's simply a sensible course of action. Whoever put that body in your room-'

'We _know_ who it was.'

'I don't want to risk them doing it again. I don't know how he got in, but I'd just feel more...comfortable.' He turned his eyes on John, wide and imploring, 'Don't make me beg John.'

_Yeah, like I have any choice in the matter._

John relented 'All right, see ya around two then?'

Sherlock beamed and jumped up, grabbing at his coat and scarf. 'Excellent. Well, if you're off to Ruard's I'll stop by. Keep your old key just in case.'

John pulled himself from his chair, watching his boyfriend bounce around like a puppy that had just been told it was time for walkies. Sherlock almost ran out of the flat in his enthusiasm. John barely had time to grab his coat before following him.

'So, I'll see you around two then?'

'Er..I guess.' John blinked, watching Sherlock with a feeling torn between exasperation and amusement. He could be just like a child sometimes.

As the two men stepped out, Sherlock indulged in his magical cab-hailing powers and was gone in a matter of seconds. John had less luck, but managed to flag down a taxi in the end. Hastily reading out the address to a cantankerous old driver, John watched London sail past. It suddenly struck John that London was big. Big, old and immensly populated, Moriarty could be anywhere, anyone could be one of his 'people', even...

'Here you are.' snapped the driver, making John jump. Looking out the window John saw abulding with white and green awning, rippling innocently in the breeze. Handing the driver a handful of notes he got out, staring at the peaceful location. Inside the bookshop John could see a young blonde man pushing horn-rimmed glasses back up his nose as he bent over some sort of book. Could this be the man?

The man looked up as John pushed the door open.

'Can I help you?' he asked brightly. His voice had a French lilt. John entered, holding out his hand.

'Hi, I'm a friend of Sherlock Holmes, I'm-'

'You're Doctor Watson.' The young man said softly, fixing John with a strange stare. 'I know you.'

'Er...' John mumbled awkwardly, feeling his face grow hot. The young man walked around his desk and clasped John's hand in his, shaking it.

'I'm Arthur Ruard.'

So it was him, John had to admit, the guy seemed so young.

'Um...yeah, Sherlock talked about you.' he said, 'I heard about what you did...f-for me. I wanted to thank the man who helped save my life.'

This time it was Ruard who went a faint pinkish hue. 'You're welcome Doctor Watson.'

'John.'

'John.' Ruard smiled. Both men seemed to reach a silent mutual agreement of 'enough gushing' and John cleared his throat, retrieving the tattered copy of _Wuthering Heights _from his jacket pocket.

'Sherlock told me you did a bit of bookbinding?'

'_Oui_.' said Ruard, gently taking John's book from him. He then turned the book over in his hands, inspecting the cover and running his fingers over the spine.

'This needs quite a bit of work, seems everything has happened to it apart from fire. You've had it long?'

'Since I was a kid.' John admitted, it was true. For his favourite book John had abused it so, dropping it in a puddle when he was at Uni and so on.

'Well, I could do it today?' Ruard offered, John smiled again.

'Brillaint. How much?' he asked, fiddling around his pockets for his wallet. To his surprise Ruard waved his hand.

'No, for you and Monsieur Holmes, I do it for free.'

John paused, his wallet held aloft, 'It's no trouble-'

Ruard gave him a 'shut up' look and placed the book on his desk, he motioned for John to take one of the seats that littered the place and turned to him.

'Tea?'

'Please.'

One the two men were sipping at the steaming mugs, John cleared his throat;

'So...you know Sherlock?'

'Hmm? Yes.' Ruard replied, 'he helped me out of a sticky situation a while back.'

John raised an eyebrow, 'Really?'

'Better believe it John, and let me tell you, Monsieur Holmes knows how to handle a kettle...'

...

Sherlock saw the two men through the window, and studied them for a few seconds before going in. Both were laughing fit to burst, Ruard clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles. Though both were blonde, Sherlock could clearly tell by the slightly darker shade John was the other. In his pocket, the tips of his fingers felt the cold hard edge of the new keys, there were two, one for him, one for John.

John's shoulders were shaking with laughter, and as he turned his head slightly Sherlock could see John's cheeks were red. The sight of John in such mirth sent a bizarre thrill through Sherlock, it was a beautiful sight. If Sherlock had his way, he could watch John's face crumple up with laughter forever.

The two men's laughter was muffled through the door, but became steadily clearer as Sherlock entered.

'And then...' Ruard cried, tears running down his face and breath hitching, 'And then, I swear to God, he runs in, wearing _nothing _but a floral apron and waving a fork about...yelling 'Get to the ducklings!' '

Sherlock froze, Ruard was describing to John the case that Sherlock had solved and, in doing so, saved Ruard's life. Well, the events described were true (and he was sure as Hell not planning to tell John at any point, trying to keep some air of dignity) but Ruard was certainly making light of the matter.

'It was serious then, but now I look back on it, _Mon Dieu que vous n'avez jamais rien vu de si drôle comme un détective conseil nue moitié brandissant des couverts!_'

'Not as funny as you tripping over a rug into a suit of armour.' Sherlock cut in. John whipped round and smiled.

'Arthur's been telling me some stuff about that case you were on.' He said, seeming to regain some sort of self-control now Sherlock was in the room. Sherlock would have happily walked up to him and kiss that smile if Ruard had not been in the room.

'I'll tell you how it _actually _happened one day.'

'No, you'll cut out all the fun bits.' Ruard interjected. Sherlock shot him his best stop-destroying-my-enigmatic-persona look. He reached into his pocket and tossed one of the silver keys to John, who caught it. Once again, Sherlock was impressed at John's hand-eye co-ordination despite only having one eye.

'That one's yours, look after it.' He said. John pocketed it, stood up and gave Sherlock a brief hug.

_'Thanks' _he whispered into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock felt his eyes close briefly of their own accord.

_Oh great, I'm getting all touch-feely in a public place..._

The moment was spoiled somewhat by Sherlock's phone, once again, going off.

'Who's that?' John asked mildly.

'Lestrade, he says there are developments on the body.'

John nodded, 'I'll head on home then.'

'You're not coming?'

'No.' John said, folding his arms, 'I'm not going near that thing again.'

Sherlock could see it was pointless arguing with him. 'Fine.' He said, 'I'll see you later.'

John smirked at him, then turned to Ruard;

'When will the book be done?'

'I'll get started on it this evening.' Ruard answered. 'See you in about two days.'

'Alright, fine. Nice meeting you.' John grinned. Sherlock held the door open for him and, after a quick goodbye, John walked off, chuckling about something that sounded remarkably like ducklings.

...

'Well?' Sherlock snapped impatiently.

Lestrade fiddled with his tie for the umpteempth time, 'I didn't want to tell you this over the phone-'

'Well I'm here now, so just tell me!' Sherlock really was starting to get pissed off, Lestrade had danced around the subject for all of seven minutes, the black body bag lying neatly on the table between them. Luckily the smell had abated somewhat due to the sterile environment of the lab.

Lestarde cleared his throat; 'Alright, the body's six months old...'

'I could have told you that. Anything important?, or did we just pop down here to state the obvious?'

Lestrade frowned at him, clearly not comfortable with whatever information he had for Sherlock.

'Well, we've identified him.'

'Brilliant!' Sherlock enthused 'Give me a name.'

Lestrade took a deep breath and looked Sherlock full in the eyes.

'It's Terry Markin.'

Sherlock's smile vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

...

The key fitted nicely into the lock, and with a soft click the door opened. John pushed it open and shrugged off his coat. It wasn't until he'd shut the door and turned to actually look at the flat that he saw, with a dreadful clarity, that he wasn't alone.

Sprawled upon the sofa like he owned the place was a slightly built man with dark hair and an impeccable suit. The man smiled, cold and unsettling.

'Hello Johnny.'

...

_Phew. The chapter really hated me, there was a lot of talk. Well done to the Reviewer who saw the little twist coming :)_

_Next time: Jim indulges in a little banter, and offers the boys a rather interesting little proposition..._


	4. The Invitation

_Ain't I a stinker? Leaving you on a cliffhanger like that...I feel okay about it._

_Got a Sherlock tee shirt ordered :D I am so excited!_

_Okay,so back to the actual plot; I love me some 'Moriarty messing with John's head' banter. I've taken artistic license with the geography of 221B Baker Street, moving around furniture and whatnot. So if your really not happy that the sofa's not against the wall, sorry._

_This chapter's a little late as I've hit the ground running at college. Lots of very busy stuff going on._

_Oh, and anyone who wants to solve the mytery of whatever Sherlock and Ruard got up to in 'The Strange Affair of the Scottish Pumpkin', feel free to write it yourself, I would love to know your theories :) xx  
>...<em>

'Hello Johnny.' Moriarty smiled.

John froze, the mere sight of the man seemingly knocking all the breath from his body. He hadn't clapped eyes on Jim Moriarty for nearly two years, and certainly wasn't keen on rekindling the acquaintance. He couldn't make a break for the door, who knows what Moriarty could do to the flat (arson in all probability). John's eyes flickered to the telephone, betraying his element of surprise should he try and contact Sherlock. Moriarty tilted his head to the side and fixed him a patronizing stare.

'Would you really risk it Johnny?'

John said nothing, keeping his face blank. Knowing Moriarty, any little sign of emotion on his face, any little tell and he'd use it as some kind of weapon. He kept his eyes on the man who was smiling at him almost genially. Moriarty gestured at the armchair in front of him.

'Take a seat Johnny.'

_Yeah__right,_ John answered mentally. When he didn't respond, Moriarty's face lost some of it's friendliness.

'Sit down.' he ordered. Reluctantly, John did as he was told, watching the smile edge it's way onto Moriarty's face.

'There, that's better.' Moriarty beamed, contuiniung his one-way conversation. 'I must say Dr Watson, that eye-patch suits you rather well. I guess Sherlock has a thing for pirates.'

John gritted his teeth but otherwise said nothing. His fingers curled up into tight fists in his lap. Part of him told him that he'd have to speak up soon, or Moriarty could lose his temper.

'How did you get in?' he hissed. Moriarty rolled his eyes;

'Oh please...like Sherlock, I have friends that owe me favours, and one _just__so__happened_to work in a locksmiths. Isn't that funny?'

'Hysterical.' John hadn't heard anything less funny in his life.

Moriarty frowned slightly at John's less that enthusiastic response. 'You know,' he continued mildly, rubbing his chin 'I was hoping we'd have a nice little chat one day. Last time you were unconsious for a lot of it, and even then it was more along the lines of 'do as I say or I kill you'. But, no time like the present is there?'

'What do you _want_?' John snapped, the thrill of fear making the fine hair on the back of his neck stand upright. He felt sick to his stomach simply watching Moriarty lean back on Sherlock's sofa, but found he didn't really want to look away. It was like trying to outstare a cobra.

'Don't be rude Johhny.' Moriarty chided sweetly, 'There's a line between being direct and just being mean.'

Gritting his teeth, John magically prevented himself from trying to strangle the man then and there. For a split second he wondered if he could make a mad dash for the door, or if he could call for help. The thought of trying to outrun a bullet quashed the first theory, and fear for their landlady stopped him from trying the other. Maybe he'd already silenced Mrs Hudson in some way? If he'd hurt her, John would kill him, he really would.

'Mrs Hudson?-' he began, but Moriarty cut him off.

'Oh relax, your granny's fine.' He said airily, 'She's down the Post Office. I was careful to make sure we weren't interrupted.'

'You killed that little boy.' John said angrily. Moriarty waved his hand.

'Collateral damage.'

'Why are you here?' John demanded. Moriarty fixed him with a gaze in a way that gave John the uneasy feeling that, like Sherlock, Moriarty had the uncanny ability to read his mind.

'But I do have one _teensy_little thing that caught my attention.' Moriarty continued, leaning forward and resting his chin on steepled fingers. 'Just a little itch I need scratched. Word on the street is that Sherlock and you are an item Johnny.'

John's stomach turned to lead inside him. _Oh__God__he__knows._

A truly viscious smirk illuminated Moriarty's face and the ghost of a chuckle rumbled deep n his throat. John didn't even open his mouth, but somehow the man _knew_. This was bad, this was very, very bad. This was 'pack your bags and move to Mexico' bad. Anything he could say or do would condemn them further. But surely staying silent told Moriarty everything he needed to know. The man clapped his hands like a gleeful child, seemingly ecstatic at this new development.

'My my, how _exciting_...' he purred, leaning backward again. Suddenly he let out a soft chuckle, making John jump.

'Well, there's no accounting for taste I'm sure. Don't get me wrong Dr. Watson, you have your own merits. But Sherlock is a different creature entirely. Truth be told, to my eyes, it's like a panther dating a bumblebee.'

Despite his crippling fear, John felt a stab of annoyance. _Bumblebee?_

_'_But I digress,' Moriarty continued smoothly. John felt he couldn't breathe, the once cosy room was now opressive and stifling. Moriarty sighed, apparently tired of his one sided conversation. He leaned forward again, eyes fastened on John's face.

'What's it like?' he asked breathlessly.

John glared; 'What's what like?'

'You know Johnny,' Moriarty hissed softly, eyes gleaming. 'What's it like with him? What's it like when he kisses you?' Moriarty then disregarded personal space entirely and closed the gap between them, inches apart from John's face, an undisguised lascivious look in his eye. 'When he _touches_you?...'

John flinched backward, realising too late he should have gone to the side, Moriarty's hands were now either side of him, blocking any possible escape routes.

'What about when he fucks you?'

'None of your fucking business!' John snapped, giving the man a look of pure poison. Moriarty's eyes widened. 'Oh...you haven't yet?'

John's breath hitched. No, they hadn't. Just his luck, for his boyfriend to have a nemesis with the same magical deductive skills. How could he have given it away?

Moriarty shivered with delight, 'And it is my business Johnny. _Very_much my business.'

For a second the two men stared at each other, John's pulse racing. To his immense relief, Moriarty backed off, releasing him.

'You know, I was just browsing your lovely flat here. I never figured you for one to keep toys in your room Johnny.'

He fished something out of his breast pocket and held it aloft. John could see it clearly between the man's forefinger and thumb. A tiny plastic soldier.

Every muscle in John's body tensed.

'Give that back.' He snarled. A smirk crossed Moriarty's face. He turned to John and held his arms wide.

'Make me.' he purred. 'What's so special about it? It's only a lump of plastic.'

To John, it was not _just_a lump of plastic. The toy soldier had been given to Sherlock by Anderson whilst John had been unconsious in hospital. Sherlock had then in turn given it to him. There was an unspoken agreement between the three of them that the toy was a good luck charm, a symbol of hope for him. Sherlock had told him to think of it as a symbolic protector, since it had kept watch over John when Sherlock wasn't beside him in hospital, or at night. Moriarty wasn't taking that away from him.

John lunged. A momentary look of shock rippled over Moriarty's face, but was replaced by an ice-cold glare. Snarling, them man grabbed John by his bad shoulder, digging his fingers into the ruined flesh.

The pain was like a bolt of lightning. John instantly dropped to his knees on the floor, his face twisting in a pained grimace. Moriarty brought his face close to John's ear, his breath hot on his cheeks.

'Try that again Johnny sweetheart, and you will severly regret it.' he hissed maliciously. He briefly clawed into the skin, making John gasp with shock. Thankfully he let go, burying his other hand into John's pocket, fishing out his phone but gently placing the toy soldier in it's place.

'You boys break my heart sometimes.' Moriarty said simply, without any discernable emotion. John struggled back to his feet, panting heavily.

'Ok, you have my attention.' he snapped. 'Why are you here?'

'Hmm? Oh, I have a request, an invitation if you will.' Moriarty chirped, the childlike candour back in full force. 'If you'd be so kind to bring Sherlock along.'

John narrowed his eyes, uneasiness clenching at his insides. 'Bring Sherlock where?' He knew he shouldn't rise to the bait, but living with Sherlock Holmes gives you a healthy sense of curiosity. Moriarty smiled broadly.

'I believe you're familiar with the Vauxhall Arches? If memory serves me right you glimpsed my good friend Oskar there.'

John nodded curtly. Oskar Dzundna, better known as The Golem, had escaped him and Sherlock all that time ago in the arches. He'd never seen Sherlock so pissed off.

'Good. Tell Sherlock to meet me there tomorrow night.'

'Or what?'

'Do you want to hear the alternative? It'd include a lot of pain for you and those within a three mile radius.'

John shot him a look of undisguised venom, which failed to receive any reaction. Jim Moriarty was obviously used to people glaring at him.

'So it's settled then.' Morairty trilled, 'You and Sherlock meet me tomorrow night. Vauxhall Arches. I know you won't forget Johnny.'

With that, Moriarty's fingers began flying over the keypad of John's phone. John couldn't see what he was typing.

'What are you doing?' He demanded. Morairty tossed the phone back to him.

'I'd love to stay and chat a bit more Dr Watson. There's so much I'd love to ask you...'

'Get. Out.'

Moriarty pouted, not the reaction he was hoping for. The tip of the man's tongue ran over is lips.

'My my, does Sherlock like it when you take charge?'

John made to physically throw him out, but Moriarty slid out the door, slamming it behind him. John could hear his laughter trail off, it sickened him to the core.

Letting all the air escape from his lungs, John allowed himself to collapse heavily on the sofa. He took several deep breaths, balling his hands into tight fists.

He'd have to comply with Moriarty's request, that much he knew. He couldn't risk the lives of innocent people. But could he lead Sherlock into what was clearly a trap? Leaving Sherlock there was out of the question, he'd rather face an eternity back in the darkness at the mercy of the Sculptor than let Sherlock meet Moriarty undefended.

He glanced at his phone, deciding to inspect the damage:

_Messages- Sent  
>Sherlock:<em>

_You should get yourself a boyfriend with thicker skin. This one's a little touchy. M xx_

Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

John closed his eyes, mind reeling. Several minutes later, he heard the downstairs door crash open. Sherlock had obviously got the text then.

'John! JOHN?' came the muffled baritone of Sherlock's voice, sounding panicked. The door to the flat swung open as John reopened his eyes and saw Sherlock leaning against the door frame, out of breath. The man seemed to sag in relief to see John unhurt.

'Oh thank God.' he half-whispered, rushing forward. John barely had time to do anything before he was scooped up in Sherlock's tight grip, Sherlock's face buried in the hollow of his neck.

'Are you alright? I ran straight here.'

'Easy, easy...' John soothed, lightly stroking Sherlock between the shoulder blades. 'I'm ok, it's alright.'

Sherlock released him, his quicksilver eyes wide as they scanned John's face.

'Moriarty was here?'

John nodded dumbly. Sherlock frowned slightly, then stood up and crossed the flat in one fluid motion (God he's so bloody _graceful_). John heard the key in the lock as Sherlock twisted it, sealing the world out.

He turned back to John. 'Tell me everything.'

For a moment John just stared at the floor, his fingers laced so tightly together he felt they might break. Should he tell Sherlock? What would he say? Tell him to run? Or say nothing at all?

He raised his gaze to see Sherlock staring intently at him. A cold wave rolled across his shoulders. He could never hide anything, not even if he tried.

Distantly, he felt his mouth open and before he knew it, everything that happened during Morairty's brief visit tumbled inelegantly out. When he could bring himself to look at Sherlock he was met with nothing but an expressionless mask that seemed to harden ever so slightly when he described them moment he tried to fight back and got his shoulder hurt. Sherlock's expression didn't change when John finally reached the topic of Moriarty's 'invitation', but his eyes took on that sharp quality he got when faced with a challenge.

John hesitated before opening his mouth again, he already knew the answer, but he voiced the question anyway.

'So-So what's the plan?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, 'Well, I'll go and meet him obviously.'

_Obviously_John thought to himself.

'Sherlock are y-?'

'Hey,' Sherlock smiled thinly, 'It's only a chat with our friendly neighbourhood psychopath.'

John heard no humour in Sherlock's voice and met his gaze steadily. The smile was gone, replaced with a steely expression.

'Right,' John said, nodding. 'So that settles it.'

'Right.'

'We'll probably get shot at if we bring the police-'

'Woah, woah, woah.' Sherlock held up a hand, '_We?_You're staying here. It'd be safer.'

'Not bloody likely.' John retorted, glaring back. 'If you think for one second I'm letting you go alone your even stupider than you look.'

Sherlock said nothing, but continued to look at John with an almost melacholic resignation on his face. There seemed to be a soft regret in the detective's eyes, as if he wished John wasn't quite so loyal to him. After all, being close friends got John into the horrifying mess with Markin and Sculptor only six month ago. What about now? When they were together? What could happen to him? To them?

'And don't even try to stop me.' John ploughed on mercilessly, 'You know I'll find a way, consequences be damned.'

Sherlock sighed, then leaned in and placed a firm, chaste kiss on John's lips. 'You're reckless.'

'Er, excuse me? Pot. Kettle. Black.' John smiled.

They sat side by side on the sofa, each lost in his own thoughts, feeling the reassuring warmth and pressure of the other next to them. Neither moved for quite some time.

...

_First things first; how was Moriarty? I was so terrified I'd get the characterization all wrong, I deleted quite a bit of dialogue just in case he came across as the King of Molesters._

_(Just a bit of unashamed fangirling: I SAW RAMIN KARIMLOO IN CONCERT!)_

_Next chapter: Sherlock finds himself invited to partake in a second 'game', which also holds a nasty shock for John._

_Addio my darlings :)_


	5. Vauxhall Arches

_What fiendish plans have I concocted for our boys? I'll have to make a point of treating them nicely at some point in the future._

_..._

The sound of the tv filled the flat, but Sherlock could tell John wasn't actually watching it, he was too stiff, too alert in his armchair, not the comfortable slouch he normally adopted. The clock thudded dully as the time ticked past. They had waited the day out in their flat, and now there were only two hours to go until Sherlock would deem it a suitable time for them to leave. John had spent several hours at the practice but left early, luckily Sarah had cottoned onto the fact it was 'detective business' and asked no more about it. It was fortunate that they'd received no visitors today, it would be tricky to come up with convincing enough excuses to explain their absence. Though when Sherlock told Mrs Hudson that they were 'going out' she had accepted it with a knowing smile he didn't bother to correct.

'You know, you don't have to come, I won't think anything less of you.' he tried for the fiftieth time that afternoon. John looked round to him and sighed.

'You're really gonna ask again?'

Sherlock thought about it and found the answer was; yes. Yes, he'd ask over and over up until he actually reached the Vauxhall Arches. He may be stupid enough to risk his safety, but not John's. When they had just been friends and roomates, Moriarty hadn't even hesitated to strap a bomb to John's chest. What would he do know they were...well, 'together'?

'And you can stop giving me that look, I'm not changing my mind.' John told him simply, turning back to the tv. Sherlock pulled a face.

'You can stop that too.'

Sherlock heaved his most melodramatic sigh in response, contenting himself to look over old case files instead of sulking.

The time ticked past, the world whizzed by outside their window and it wasn't until the last amber rays began to sink behind the skyline that Sherlock grabbed his coat.

'Come on then.'

...

'You alright?'

'Yes Sherlock, we've been over this. I'm completely fine.'

'Hmm.'

'What about you?'

'Never better.'

The two of them stood at the entrance to the Arches, a lukewarm spring breeze playing around them. If Sherlock had ever found the Arches intimidating beforehand, they were damn right eerie now. The darkening sky above them was pinpricked with tiny stars and wispy grey clouds were slowly hovering over them. The hubbub of traffic was dulled, barely a background rumble.

Sherlock took a deep breath to steel himself, there was a slight, vague feeling of dread he couldn't completely shake off. Last time he'd had a confrontation with Moriarty, he'd been confident and sure that he'd make it out unscathed, however once John had been thrust into the equation that confidence had been, understandably, shaken.

'You know, you never did tell me why you went off to see Lestrade.' John said lightly.

'Not the time John.' Sherlock cut across, giving him a small smile. John huffed and thrust his hands into his pocket, surveying the surrounding area with detached interest.

'Still got your gun?' he asked, despite the fact he could see a bump in John's waistband.

'Just in case.' John replied, keeping a steady gaze on the arches ahead.

'Scared?'

'Shitless.'

Sherlock smirked briefly, then began a steady stride into the Arches, John followed a few steps behind. Their footsteps echoed eerily around the stone structure.

'Strange.' Sherlock murmured, surveying the immediate surroundings with distaste.

'What?' John asked, his voice had a tinge of carefully disguised nervousness to it.

'This place is a haven for the homeless population.' Sherlock explained, running his hand along some chipped stone.

'So?'

'So where are they?'

John didn't offer up any answer, so, in apprehensive silence, they continued forward.

'Did he say exactly where to meet him?' Sherlock asked, once more breaking the silence. John shook his head.

'We'll find him soon enough.'

They kept walking, only the occasional _drip_ of water falling off the walls to the floor could be heard. The silence began to annoy Sherlock. Really, what's the point of all the supervillain, cliché drenched mystery if all they were going to do was plod around an empty wasteland? He prevented himself from keeping a hold on John to make sure he was near, John was on the alert for any sign on danger and probably wouldn't welcome Sherlock clinging to him. Glancing back he could see the very last ray of sunlight vanish, plunging them into even thicker darkness. Still he pushed on, concentrating on the sound of their footsteps.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a sound that made both him and John stop short. It came softly at first, barely an echo, but it gained volume, like it was getting closer. Sherlock strained his ears and it didn't take long for him to realise the sound was of someone _humming_. Humming, bizarrely, what sounded suspiciously like _For__He's__A__Jolly__Good__Fellow_.

'Is that?-' John began, cutting himself short as Moriarty sauntered around one of the corners, hands nonchalantly in his pockets with a smile on his face.

'Evening boys.' He greeted them. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, every particle of his body was itching to deliver a right hook right into the man's smug face. Nothing would give him greater satisfaction.

'Oh Sherlock babe don't scowl. It's not a flattering look for you.' Moriarty simpered at him, the tone making his skin crawl. He made himself match Moriarty's stare, but not his twisted smile.

'I'm glad you could accept my invitation.' Moriarty continued, 'I'd have thought you'd two would be...busy.'

'I'm surprised you wanted to have this little meet up, world of crime hit a downer?' Sherlock shot back, enunciating every syllable with as must disdain as he could muster. Moriarty just waved his hand.

'Never better thank you-' he paused and cocked his head round to look at John. 'Hi Johnny.' he smiled, before looking back to Sherlock. Sherlock, in turn, continued to stare daggers.

'What do you want?' He snapped loudly, wishing he had John's gun in his hand at that exact moment. Better to kill the creep now than to let him stay and ruin everything. He could hear John's steady breathing behind him, giving a sort of reassurance that Sherlock wasn't totally outnumbered should Moriarty's cronies turn up.

'I take it you came alone?' Moriarty enquired, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock risked a glance at John, the only living soul who also knew about this little meeting.

'Of course.' He spat. Unsuprisingly, the smarmy grin widened.

'Oh babe that was silly. Really, I gave you more credit than that.'

Sherlock spun round and, sure enough, his eyes picked out the dark, hulking shapes of faceless henchmen lurking in the shadows. John withdrew his gun, not aiming at anyone but still keeping it close. Moriarty let out a low laugh.

'Now now, no need for that. My boys are just here in case you get a little...squiffy.'

'You haven't answered my question.' Sherlock growled softly, 'What do you want?'

'Remember our little game Sherlock?' Moriarty teased, tapping his own temple with a forefinger. Sherlock felt his skin prickle with self-disgust, a 'game', that's what he had thought of it at first. Of course he remembered, it had been great fun. Now he looked back on it, he felt a twinge of shame at his previous cavalier attitude to people being strapped to bombs. He regretted that now, in his darker moments, he felt a terrible guilt at having been indirectly responsible for the old lady, not to mention the dozen people in the flat with her...

Breaking into his own thoughts, Sherlock gave a curt nod.

'Excellent. Well, in my little absence I became so _bored_ Sherlock. It's horrible being bored don't you think? So I spent a bit of time devising a brand new game for us! Isn't that exciting?'

Sherlock's expression remained grim. In what concievable way did the psychopath think Sherlock was going to find this information exciting? Was he seriously expected to be happy at the prospect of more people being put in danger? Moriarty pouted at his lack of response.

'Oh come on, I know you've been waiting for this...the thrill of the chase, how can you resist?'

'Stop it.' Sherlock snapped. Even in his posistion of the moral upper hand, he could feel the pull, like a gravitational force, to the prospect of a new challenge. He felt slightly sick, itching at the thought but biting it back.

'If I refuse?' he ventured softly.

'Well, you can go home and I just play by myself. But I do love playing against the perfect opponent. Just you and I again Sherlock.'

Sherlock's frown deepened. 'Tell me.'

Moriarty practically danced with glee, baring all his teeth in an extremely feral grin. 'Like last time. I'll even play nice and give you clues.'

_Just__you__and__I..._It'd be a battle of wits, of minds. Comprehension cleared through Sherlock's misgivings, he knew he was smart enough. He did it last time.

_It's__not__just__you__at__stake._ A voice piped up in the back of his mind, it sounded annoyingly like John. Of course there'd be risk...but if he won...surely it'd be worth it if Moriarty was brought down?

'Don't leave me hanging Holmes.' Moriarty said lowly, a hint of menace now lacing his couldn't bring himself to give any sort of answer. All this bloody emotional trauma and self conflict was certainly becoming increasingly inconvienient. It was times like this he was thankful for having a backup.

He cast a glance back at John, who was still tense, ready to fight if necessary. Their eyes met briefly. It was a signal of how close they were that John and he could read each other like books.

_What do I do?_

John's mouth formed a grim, thin line. His eyes remained soft as he gave a curt nod.

_Do what you need to. I'll follow your lead._

Sherlock nodded in return then turned back to Moriarty, who was still smiling expectantly.

'Fine.'

'Oh _fantastic!_' Moriarty trilled, clapping his hands, 'I just knew you wouldn't dissapoint.' His eyes became hard again, all trace of his jovial side gone. 'But we musn't forget little Johnny in all this.'

Sherlock stiffened. There was no way he was letting the psychopath touch John. Behind him, he heard John take a step forward, his silence speaking volumes (most of which included 'why me?' and 'oh what now?').

'Don't be like that Sherlock I have no intention of hurting Johnny.' Smirked Moriarty. 'It's true that my proposal is just between us, but that doesn't mean your boyfriend can't have some fun.' He paused, straightening his already immaculate tie, 'Besides, I want him to meet an old friend of mine.'

He looked past Sherlock to John, who narrowed his eyes suspiciously. A shape moved behind Moriarty. Sherlock sighed, had the rehearsed this? All for dramatic effect surely.

Moriarty's eyes glinted with keen venom 'You'll recall Klause I'm sure.'

The shape moved forward into the dull light of where they stood, revealing a slightly built man. The newcomer had a pale, rat like face with cruel dark eyes and a faint smile that was incredibly unnerving. His dark hair was smothered in oil and shone dully. Nothing about the man was particularly exceptional.

Except...the second the man came forward Sherlock heard John draw in a sharp intake of breath. Spinning around Sherlock was amazed at the look of pure terror on John's face, the deep blue eye widening with shock, mouth slightly open. John stumbled a few steps backward.

'You.' John whispered.

'John.' Sherlock said sharply, directing John's attention to him, 'You know this man?'

John's gaze flickered back to the two men in front of them, lingering on the newcomer with fear Sherlock was alarmed to see. His lower lip trembled as he answered, the words rushed and panicked;

'I-It's him Sherlock. The Sculptor...'

Sherlock shook his head in confusion, the name was unknown to him. John swallowed and forcibly held Sherlock's eyes, his face pearl-white.

'This man took my eye.'

...

* _dramatic__music*__Sweet__mother__of__ZOD,__shit__has__now__hit__the__fan._

_I apologise profusely about how long this took. I stumbled across the 'Portal' fandonm accidently and had to fight off several thousand turrets to write this. Also, 'Swan Lake' is taking up a helluva lot of my time at the moment, but fear not! I have not forgotten you gorgeous people._

_Next time: 'This man haunts you, how can I help you if you won't let me understand?'_

_See ya x_


	6. The Steadfast Tin Soldier

_Thanks so much for all your lovely feedback! Please don't hesitate to leave a review, otherwise I end up thinking I'm just tossing these words around for the ether to feed on XD  
>So...we see the return on Sculptor. I did promise that he hadn't been forgotten and so we have him making a shit more problems for John.<em>

_One kind reviewer has asked how long this story will be; the answer is simple. It will finish whenever it reaches a natural end (because I have no clue, plot bunnies are hiding everywhere)_

_The good news is that 'Swan Lake' is over, bad news is that my arms took such a beating._

_..._

No. No this wasn't possible. It _couldn't_be possible. This had to be some joke, a cruel stunt of Moriarty's design. The gun in his hand began to shake imperceptibly, but John forced himself to still his hand and to cling onto some composure. During his years in the military he'd seen horrors nobody should ever see, things that should have destroyed him psychologically. But nothing, _nothing_ had ever made him want to throw up where he stood as seeing the Sculptor's face did now. It was as if he was back in that dank cellar again, bleeding and curled up on the floor. Everything else around him became a blur, even Sherlock's voice appeared distant in comparison to the Sculptor's twisted gleeful smile.

'John?..JOHN!'

John blinked rapidly, trying to regain control his ragged breathing. Sherlock's face, usually so calm and impassive, seemed practically electrified with the worry in those silver eyes. There was something about the notion of Sherlock being afraid for him brought John back to the reality of their situation. He doubled his grip on the gun and aimed it squarely at his former tormentor's face. He had no qualms, he'd do it. He was more than happy to kill the man that scarred him so badly. But what repurcussions would follow should he pull the trigger? The uncomfortable fact remained that he and Sherlock were heavily outnumbered and could easily be overpowered, possibly even killed. He took a deep breath and thought back to something one of the boys in his regiment told him back in Afghanistan:

_Wait right up until the last second. Don't give away any element of surprise. Give yourself time to plan._

He lowered the gun, his mouth dry. There was the tiniest sign of relief from Sherlock, but John made himself ignore it. A thrill of guilt began to dampen the fear; he had never confessed – to Sherlock, or to anyone – about Sculptor. Nobody knew about him, believing they had captured everyone involved in Markin's plot. John had lied to Mycroft about his presence for fear of the consequences should the police find the rat-faced man. It was like having a personal ghost, lingering in the back of your head.

John blinked, clearing his head of all the melodrama clouding his head. He turned his gaze instead to Sherlock, who was now frowning questionably at him. He owed Sherlock and explanation, and an even bigger apology (presuming they survived tonight of course) about his own cowardice.  
>'How are you John?' Sculptor said suddenly, causing John to jump. It was delievered in a polite tone, as if they were old schoolfriends catching up. He felt another wave of sickening bile rise up in his throat. He opened his mouth to tell him just exactly how he was feeling but no words came. He kept his eyes on the space between Sherlock and himself, as if he could will the entire scene away.<p>

'Doctor Watson that's very rude.' Moriarty snapped sharply, 'You shouldn't ignore people who are talking to you.'

'Go to Hell.' John snapped back. The harshness of his voice spurred Sherlock into action too, the detective tensed himself, ready to either run or fight. Moriarty chuckled darkly, delighted that his 'boys' were showing a little spirit at last.

'Oh really? You have one gun between you and no back-up. What exactly is your plan for getting home tonight?' He drawled waspishly. John pressed his lips together. They had no plan. Maybe he should just grab Sherlock's hand and run whilst shooting anyone in his way, damn the consequences. Even in his panicked state, it was a stupid idea.

'Kill them here and now? Come now James, that's not your style.'

John flinched at the Sculptor's voice, every word felt like a punch to the throat. Sherlock drew himself to his full height, a sure sign he was about to be impressive. John wet his lips with apprehension, if Sherlock went shooting his mouth off in front of the two most dangerous men in the country it could spell a grisly end for both of them.

'This new 'game' will not go ahead if John is involved.' He announced.

John inwardly groaned, _now_Sherlock indulged in a heroic streak?

Moriarty grinned 'Oh I _like_this new noble side to you Sherlock.'

'I mean it.'

'I'm sure you do. But really, you must let your boyfriend speak for himself.'

'Why are you here?' John spat to Sculptor, who raised his eyebrows.

'I owe James a favour.' He shrugged, his pinched features etched with a kind of macabre delight. 'And I did enjoy our time together, didn't you? My little tin soldier?'

In hindsight, what John did next was, without a doubt, the most idiotic thing ever in the whole history of human stupidity. Had he had been a more cold, calculating machine like Sherlock John would have ignored the jibe and continued to plan an escape. But he wasn't a calculating machine, he was a very scared and angry man.

He lunged with a cry and roughly tackled Sculptor to the ground, much to Moriarty's glee. The chaos that erupted with Moriarty's thugs was unimportant to him, all he could concentrate on washurting Sculptor as much as possible. He became aware of someone fiercely tugging at his torso, prying him off, but not before he delivered an intensly satisfying punch to his tormentor's face. Voices melted together, it became impossible to identify who's voice was who's. The hands at his torso whipped him round by the shoulders. John braced himself for as fight but stopped abruptly. Sherlock looked electrified with adrenaline, eyes bright and ivory flushed with scarlet.

'Party's over.' He smirked, gripping John's wrist. Like a bizarre battering ram both men forced their way through the wall of men barricading their way out. As they ran Sherlock voilently shoved a young man with his shoulder, the guy fell heavily backward, landing with a sickening thud of the dirty floor.

Feet slipping on the damp stone, John's chest stung at the shortness of breath. He felt sick, distant. It was as if he were insubstansial and was little more than a ghost anchored by the pressure of Sherlock's hand on his arm.

_He's back. You knew he wouldn't vanish forever. What am I going to do?_

_..._

John barely registered Sherlock flinging him into a passing taxi or the car driving back down the familiar streets of London. Only when the warmth of 221B flodded across his face did John shakily lower himself into his armchair, face cupped in his hands.

'Care to explain?' Sherlock said lowly, a voice John recognised as his 'trying not to be angry' voice. For a second John flirted with the notion of denying anything untoward had happened. But he needed to come clean with Sherlock, it was the least he could do.

John raised his head and took a deep breath, forcing himself to look Sherlock squarely in the eyes. Not an easy task, that quicksilver stare always seemed to be one step ahead of the story anyway.

'First off; I'm sorry. I thought it was best if I never told you. But obviously I'm the bloody _King_of stupid decisions. You were bound to find out anyway, even if I didn't say anything Mycroft would-'

'Mycroft knew?' Sherlock interrupted sharply, his tone livid. John winced, Sherlock considered it the ultimate betrayal of trust if his brother was privy to information he wasn't. John shook his head vehemently.

'No! Mycroft still doesn't...I meant he'd find out...Never mind. That man tonight, h-he was the one that actually did all of this-' he gestured to himself, the spidery network of scars that now covered most of his body. 'He carved that word into my chest, he turned my back into the human pincushion..._He_was the one that took 'an eye for an eye' a bit too literally.'

John's voice wavered, like a child caught in the act of a wrongdoing. He dropped his eyes from Sherlock face and stared at his hands. It was odd, hearing it said aloud, it felt wrong, like Sculptor could poison the atmosphere without being present. But now it had started to come forth, little bits fought their way through.

'When I was kept there...He used to talk to me. God the things I heard... He told me of things he'd done. He said I was his favourite...a steadfast tin soldier.'

That was it, John felt tears sting his eyelids. He squeezed them shut to make them go away. He used the balls of his hands to wipe the moisture off his face, unconsiously wiping the eyepatch too. It sounded straightforward but it had been anything but. When Sculptor had whispered to him in the dark, their lips separated only by inches of air and a blade, it had been almost...intimate. John felt filthy and sick just thinking of it. It felt like he was betraying everything he had with Sherlock by admitting just how much the Sculptor had got under his skin. Soft footsteps crossed the room and when John opened his eyes again he saw that Sherlock had crouched down in front of him, not even bothering to discard his coat. The silver eyes were soft with sympathy, but it was hard to ignore the steely glint that accompanied intense scrutinisation.

'Why didn't you tell me?' He asked.

'I told you, I didn't want to tell you about-about him. I was scared, I still am. L-Like if I speak about him he can see me...he can find me again. Oh God I'm so pathetic..'

'Don't talk like that.' Sherlock snapped, but softened his voice when John flinched again. 'You are nothing of the sort. I've heard you talk in your sleep, like you're trying to outrun something. I deduced it was nightmares of your experience with Markin-'

'Correct.'

'But you should have told me.'

John shook his head 'And what if you met him in the street? What if he had hurt you?'

Sherlock rubbed against John's knee with the side of his hand (a gesture his mother had done frequently to comfort him as a child) and exhaled.

'This man haunts you, how can I help you if you won't let me understand?'

'Sherlock this man is dangerous.' John blurted, suddenly gripped by a dread. He leaned forward and seized Sherlock's shoulders with both hands, Sherlock looked faintly surprised but didn't move. 'He's not dangerous in the same league as Moriarty, no-one is. But please...I don't want you messing with him.'

'But he-'

'NO! Sherlock for once in your life just listen to me! Promise me you won't get involved with him.'

'I promise.' Sherlock said. John narrowed his eyes, the answer was too swift to be a genuine promise. The bloody detective was lying.

'You've got Moriarty to worry about.' He reminded him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'And I suppose it's pointless me asking you not to get involved with _my_ deadly game of cat and mouse?'

'Completely.' John affirmed. Sherlock nodded grimly.

'John?'

'Hmmm?'

'You're starting to hurt my shoulders.'

'John looked at his hands in suprise, his knuckled were white with how hard he was grasping Sherlock's shoulders. He jerked his hands away.

'Sorry.'

Sherlock got to his feet, shaking off his coat. The clock struck ten on the mantlepiece. John could tell Sherlock's brain was too active to go to sleep but he himself felt like curling up and closing his eyes.

'What now?' He mumbled to the room in general, wrapping his arms around himself.

He felt the senstion of lips press to the top of his head.

'Now we wait to make our move.' Sherlock said.

...

_*Emerges from hiding* Phew. Glad that's over._

_Sorry about my absence, 3 SHOWS IN 3 WEEKS is a bloody nightmare!_

_This may be my last update before Christmas, so everbody have a good one and I wish you all the best for the New Year! xxx_

_Next time: The game begins. Lestrade is confused, Donovan is furious and Sherlock is bitchy (again)._

_Addio my children x_


	7. Not Good

_Hey! Did you all have a good Christmas? I bet you all got great presents from your loved ones :D And a very happy New Year to you all._

_Ok first off, I need to make a little amendment from chapter 5. I used the word 'squiffy' in the thought that it meant 'a little off', but, as my mother gleefully pointed out (as well as shoving a dictionary under my nose) that it actually means 'slightly drunk'. So I'm sorry, but Moriarty didn't intend to bring along henchmen in case our boys got tipsy. Drunk on adrenaline perhaps?_

_Oh and by God, WASN'T SERIES TWO AWESOME? 'The Reichenbach Fall' made me sob like a baby and if you weren't moved by that phone call, you have no soul._

_Anywaaays. That's enough waffling on from me, enjoy this chapter :)_

_..._

John was lost in his own little world as he descended the steps of 221b Baker Street and was crudely brought back to reality by a sharp collision with another person walking up them.

'Ow, God sorry.' He huffed, looking up. Arthur Ruard pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, fumbling with a book in the crook of his arm.

'My fault Monsieur.' he stammered, nearly losing his balance and tumbling backward down the steps, rescued by John grabbing his arm and pulling him back to flat ground.

'Arthur? What are you doing here?' he smiled, thankful to talk to someone who wasn't a certain consulting detective who'd been brooding like hell that morning. It was one of the very few mornings John was looking forward to work, even if the steel grey skies didn't bode well for the general mood.

'Oh, I thought I'd return this to you, before I open the shop.' Ruard stammered, pulling a book out of his pocket and handing it to John. The spine of _Wuthering Heights_ felt weird against his skin now it wasn't frayed and falling apart. It felt thicker now every page was in it's proper place.

'Wow..er, wow. Thanks!' John beamed, admiring the young man's handiwork. God, had the poor boy worked all night to fix it?

'Um. I must say,' Ruard mused, peering at the cover 'I can see why you'd like this book, Monseuir Holmes is your Heathcliff I believe.'

This made John giggle. 'God I hope not.'

Ruard smiled cheekily 'Why not? The passion, the devotion...'

'The murderous quest for revenge?'

'Point taken.'

John's smile widened, eager to forget his and Sherlock's current predicament by joking about something so silly as a fictional character. The mental image of Sherlock going all Byron-ish in Yorkshire was really too absurd to take seriously and helped temporarily extinguish the leftover terror of last night's activities. He pocketed the book, chuckling softly to himself. Looking up to share this stupid joke with Ruard he saw the blonde's back retreating down the steps.

'Forgive me John, gotta go.' He said cheerfully. John restarted his own descent onto the street.

'Bit early to open a bookshop isn't it?'

'Oh, I just have to pop to the cafe opposite. Erm...' Ruard cut himself off, a light pink blush creeping up his neck. John raised an eyebrow.

'Yes?'

'Well...I...uh. See, there's someone who works there.'

'I see.' John teased, smirking. 'Planning to ask someone out are we?'

The pink was now suffusing Ruard's face and he began fidgeting with his hands, unsure of where exactly to place them. John waited patiently until they planted themselves firmly on Ruard's hips. 'I am. If I do it this morning, I have all day then to either celebrate my victory or cower with shame.'

John's eyes flicked back to the window of 221b, if he squinted he could just make out the edge of Sherlock's silhouette swaying to the faint strains of the violin. He remembered the all consuming embarassment he'd been through admitting his feelings after his stint in hospital. He also remembered the immense relief and joy that had flooded through his being when Sherlock had kissed him for the first time. Who was he to tease Ruard when he had been such an idiot? Whoever Ruard was asking, John was sure he was a very lucky boy.

'Her name is Emily.' Ruard smiled giddily, pushing his glasses once more back onto the bridge of his nose.

_Her _name?

Oh, well, that was a teensy bit suprising. John blinked.

'Emily? Huh, He-_She_ sounds lovely.'

Ruard gave him a confused look, as if John had started sprinting naked up and down the road.

'You sound a bit taken aback.'

'No! No, God no...' John coughed, hastily backtracking to cover his footsteps. 'I just thought you-'

Ruard stared quizzically at him, 'Thought I-?'

'Er...was more of a solo player?' John attempted, feeling his own awkward blush heating up his skin.

Ruard's confused frown deepened for a second, then cleared with a highly amused expression. As they bade each other farewell John shook his head wryly as the Frenchman walked off down the road. Clearly whatever deduction skills he'd learned from Sherlock were well of course. But then, people were funny like that.

...

'And so I said to him, I said "well I wouldn't go through all that trouble for a silly little thing like a screwdriver" but he were adamant I go and-'

John took a deep breath and said, a little more firmly this time 'That's great Mrs Gregory, extend your arm please?'

The old lady complied and John gently felt around the old woman's knotted elbow, probing the tender region with his fingertips and moving on to feel the bone itself when she winced. Mrs Gregory was suffering pain in her arm around the elbow region. It seemed to be just a commonplace sprain but John had found that if you did a thourough, if unnecessary, examination, many people felt more reassured you were doing your job right. Mrs Gregory, John was certain, was either Mrs Hudson's long lost twin or was possessed by their landlady. Lovely woman but by God she could chatter on.

John finished the examination and began to provide an explanation, stalling what he was sure to be a long winded monologue of 'our Sid'.

'You have a slight case of tennis elbow. I'm going to give you a support bandage. You should wear it all day and most nights for about two weeks. Take some aspirin if you need to and don't hesitate to call the practise if the pain gets any worse.'

The old lady smiled. 'Thank you Doctor. You are a saint.'

John smiled. 'My blushes please.'

Mrs Gregory's wrinkled face looked at him quite intently, like a grandmother who was about to declare you were looking a little thin.

'You take care of yourself. There's a sort of look about you.'

John blinked in confusion. 'Beg pardon?'

'Like you're haunted.' The old woman continued, rolling her cardigan sleeve back down over her withered arm. 'I knew a boy like you once, happy, intelligent. But then one day he had this thing happen, I dunno what, but he were so scared he practically faded away.'

'I, erm.' John muttered, stumped at this old woman's sudden insight. Mrs Gregory had never shown any awareness of anything outside her own family before, it was incredibly unnerving.

Mrs Gregory stood up, unaware of John's discomfort. 'He had no real friends to fall back on. Bet you do though. Got someone special?'

_Okay..._John thought, _now this is weird._

'I—Yes. Yes I do.' He admitted lamely.

Mrs Gregory smiled 'Well, you make sure they know. People just need to hear it once in a while.'

Joh was now openly gawking. Had Mrs Gregory suddenly turned into Mystic Meg? There wasn't really an answer he could come up with that would have in any way helped. Mrs Gregory patted him on the arm.

'I'll see myself out love.'

She left, taking her prescription with her. John slumped back in his chair, what the hell had just happened?

_She's just an old lady being nice. Stop reading so much into these sorts of things._

John rubbed his face with his hands. Mrs Gregory was his last appointment of the day, now he had a little time to himself before packing up and going home. If Sarah was still around he'd pop into her office for a cup of tea. Thank God for amicable splits.

The phone in his coat pocket rang. John rolled his eyes, annoyed someone had the cheek to interrupt his peace and quiet. Fumbling for his phone he sighed, if it was Sherlock telling him all the milk had miraculously evaporated again he'd give him a peace of his mind.

But it wasn't Sherlock. The name flashing on the screen was _G. Lestrade._

John answered it. 'Greg?'

'Hey man, just checking to see if you're okay.'

John frowned. 'Of course, yeah I'm good thanks. Why wouldn't I be?'

This was serious, if Lestrade had gotten wind of him and Sherlock meeting up with Moriarty there'd be questions. If he had somehow told Mycroft there would surely be another limo kidnap in store for John. If there was, it'd be the seventh time. Yes. John was counting.

'Well,' Lestrade continued, 'Haven't heard from you guys since me and Sherlock identified Markin's body.'

John's grip on the phone tightened instantly. 'You what?'

The following answer was laced with confusion. 'You remember right? The body in your wardrobe? It was Terry Markin. I thought Sherlock told you?'

_Terry Markin's body._

John stumbled back against his desk, feeling queasy.

'No.' He choked through gritted teeth. 'He didn't,'

'Oh God...' There was a pause at Lestrade's end of the line. Obviously the DI had just realised what he'd said. 'Mate I'm so sorry...I didn't...I thought you knew...'

'I gotta go.' John said faltingly, taking a deep breath. His fist was so tightly curled around the phone it was shaking. Not listening to Lestrade's plea not to hang up or do something stupid, John hung up.

Terry Markin's body...Moriarty had left Markin's body in his wardrobe and was now working with Sculptor? Why? What had he done that was so bad that Moriarty felt he had to fuck up his life so much? What was that supposed to symbolise anything? _As a token of our esteemed friendship I, James Moriarty, give to John Watson the rotting corpse of a man who kidnapped him._

And Sherlock had known. Sherlock _knew_. Why hadn't he said anything? Did he not think John had a right to know? Didn't deserve to know?

John pushed the door to his office open, looking up to see Sarah filing some papers at the receptionist's desk. The building was now empty save for them and some cleaners on the second floor.

'John! God you startled me, I thought you'd gone home. I was just about to leave myself-'

She stopped herself as her eyes focused on John's face. John didn't need a mirror to tell him exactly how he looked. Frightened, sick and angry all at once.

'John?' Sarah asked hesitantly, 'You alright?'

John opened his mouth but no words came forth.

'John what's wrong?' She asked again, a little more urgently.

Couldn't she see what was wrong? John tried to speak again.

'Markin...'

His voice trailed away to a pathetic whimper and John felt his leg give out slightly from under stopped himself from completely crashing to the ground by leaning against the door frame and gripping it tightly, his breath escaping in ragged sobs. Sarah was at his side a few moments later, supporting him with her arms and pulling him a little more to his feet;

'Easy, easy. Come on, I'll make some tea. Easy now come on.'

John closed his eyes, concentrating on her voice. It was more soothing and more motivating than his therapist Ella could ever be. He forced himself to match her slow strides to her office, feeling reassured by her grip on his arms. She plonked him down in her chair and rushed to the water cooler, getting him a glass of water.

'What happened?' she demanded, sitting on the desk. 'John talk to me.'

John sipped the water shakily, feeling absolutely disgusted with himself for being so weak.

'It's nothing-'

'Bullshit.' Sarah scoffed. 'Don't lie to me John Watson. I broke up with you because I was afraid something like this would happen. I care about you. Don't think the two of us falling in love with different people has changed that.'

John stared up at her in amazement; her unexpected insight knocked him back for six,when they had broken up she had warned him his heroic streak would destroy him. Now John felt the cracks begin to appear in himself, just as she had predicted, what a wonderful woman she was! He really should have listened more.

'Lestrade was on the phone.' he began, paying a great deal more attention to his own knees than was strictly required.

'Yes?' Sarah prompted, nodding at the glass of water in his hands. John took another sip and continued.

He told her everything, Sculptor, Moriarty, Markin, everything. She clucked her tongue in sympathy in the intervals when he gulped back some water, or had to pause for breath. It felt good to finally get it all out, to tell someone who wouldn't judge or criticize his actions. Most of the time she just looked sadly at him.

'What are you going to do now?' she asked gently when he'd finished. John swallowed, feeling hot anger rise up in his throat.

'I'm gonna have words with Sherlock for starters.' he growled lowly. Sarah frowned but didn't argue.

'Next...I don't know.' John admitted, his shoulders slumped, staring at the now empty glass in his hands. 'But I don't think Sculptor's gonna vanish like last time.'

'I always thought Chinese gangsters were bad.' Sarah mused, pushing strands of brown hair back out of her face. This made John smile thinly, maybe her leaving him had actually saved her life.

'Do you want a top up?' She asked, motioning at the glass.

'N-No. No. thanks.' He answered, getting up. 'Thank you, sorry for, you know, nearly braining myself on your doorframe.'

She smiled sadly, 'No problem, I'm here if you need me.'

'Thank you.'

Srah shrugged and made to move out of his way when John grabbed her upper arm.

'I mean it Sarah, thank you. So much.'

Sarah blinked, confused and unsure of how to respond. Whatever response she might have had was cut off by John planted a small kiss on her forehead and huging her tightly to him. A small strange noise escaped her, and John felt her hand rise up and pat him softly on the back of his head. Distantly John noted a musky perfume on the skin of her neck and, because living with Sherlock Holmes does things to your head, he realised she probably had a date with Colin tonight, and he was holding her up. He guiltily released her, pretending not to notice the patches of wet on her cheeks.

Or on his.

...

'Just what exactly are you implying?'

'I'm merely pointing out, dear Donovan, that you keep failing to see past your own nose.'

Lestrade rolled his eyes, it'd be nice, for just ten minutes, if Sherlock and Donovan could give it a rest (getting along was probably too much of a stretch, but was being civil really too much trouble?) They were now bickering about some evidence found at the scene of a robbery. Tiny salt marks left by an evaporated tear drop were important apparently.

'No-one in Scotland Yard could have found that!' Donovan screamed, getting scarlet in the face.

Sherlock sneered down his nose at her. 'Clearly, Really Donovan, naked mole rats are of more use than you.'

'Sherlock, leave it.' Lestrade grumbled from the doorway, not keen to get in the way, especially as now he knew Sherlock was in for the godfather of all fights when he got home to John tonight. It was like he couldn't help himself, he had to make everyone hate him to prove that they were Ralph Wiggum compared to him. Sherlock glanced at him, but otherwise continued his 'I'm-so-much-better-than-you-la-la-la' speech.

'It doesn't take a genius to work out that the salt flakes show that the robber had watery eyes thanks to taking a bunch of keys to the groin. Quite painful I'm told. When he fell some water left itself on the asphalt. Thus DNA experts can narrow the field of suspects down. Does Anderson class himself as an expert in bodily fluid?'

Oh well. That was it. Donovan's mouth gaped open, her expression livid.

'Just shut up! You know nothing about anyone!'

'Donovan...' Lestrade warned. God he needed to go to bed. Being a member of the police squad was hard work enough without babysitting these two.

'There's a smudge of ground coffee on the hem of your skirt.' Sherlock said candidly, well and truly getting himself neck-deep in it. 'Decaffinated, going by the consistensy. Only Anderson would be stupid enough to do this job and not have caffeine. Secondly, you're shirt's a little ruffled, like you got dressed in a hurry, like you had to get out a place you weren't meant to be...oh, and there are teeth marks on your clavicle.' Sherlock made a little mock gasp. 'Was he that hungry?'

Donovan snapped and raised her arm back.

'SALLY!' Lestrade barked, stopping her hand feet away from smashing Sherlock Holmes' face in. Sherlock blinked cooly and just stared in that icy, arrogant way of his. Not that Lestrade had never dearly wished to give the consulting detective a whallop of his own. Misconduct in the workplace towards a civilian was quite frowned upon.

Donovan lowered her hand shakily, her breathing ragged and her eyes filled with hot, angry tears. Lestrade felt a little twinge of sympathy for her (not that he condoned having an affair with a collegue mind you), no-one really deserved to be torn apart by a bloody Sherlock Scathing.

Without another word, Sally Donovan turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, not looking at either men as she did so. Lestrade sighed and tunred to Sherlock, who calmly brushed at his coat lapel with his hand.

'Lestrade your staff are a little hot tempered, maybe you should consider anger management courses for them.'

'Stop it. There was no need for that.' Lestrade snapped. Sherlock frowned. Lestrade cleared his throat.

'Look, what's wrong? You're being...erm, bitchier than usual.' He asked, watching Sherlock's face carefully. Something was clearly bothering him, and of course he'd lash out. Sherlock was not the feeling type, and definitely not the type to ask for help when he needed it.

'Nothing you useless pedants could help me with.' Sherlock grumbled back.

'Sherlock.'

'Moriarty's back.'

The sentence was out before Sherlock could stop it. The gravity of the situation hit Lestrade hard, the whole mess with Markin suddenly got a lot worse.

'Shit.' Lestrade swore emphatically.

...

Sherlock pushed the cold door to 221b open, his fingers spread wide over the wood. He wondered if John was home, and whether he should tell him about his spat with Sally Donovan.

He stepped into the silent flat.

'You bastard...' John whispered coldly.

...

_Yikes, what shit are our boys in up to now?_

_I apologise again for my lateness, I have no excuse other than life. And my uni didn't accept me. Sad times._

_Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed Sherlock series two :D Thanks to that, I've got a lot more inspiration for Moriaty. Eight minutes of screentimes doesn't exactly help me, characterisation wise..._

_Next time: 'No! I won't let you. I can't face this alone without you, you know I can't.'_

_See ya darlings xx_


	8. Weak and Worthless

_So far, so very not good. I do have endless fun playing with everyone's emotions, though I blame Moffat and Gatiss for that influence XD. _

_(I think you were all probably wondering if this would ever see the light of day, again I can only apologise as my life isn't letting me have free time at the moment.)_

_I have successfully converted my boyfriend to the BBC 'Sherlock' series, which, I think you'll find, isn't actually a very hard task in hindsight._

…

'You bastard.' John said coldly.

Sherlock released his grip on the door handle. He didn't even need to look at John to deduce that he was livid, nor did he even need to think to know what had made him so. He turned slowly to face John and saw the man hunched over on the edge of the sofa, ashen faced.

'Is this about Markin? I was getting round to that.' Sherlock said softly. He meant it in a candid tone, but it came out wrong, if John's hard expression as anything to go by.

'You…absolute…_bastard._' John hissed lowly, rising to his feet. Sherlock stood his ground, adopting a passive aggressive stance.

'John, it's okay-' He began, raising his hand gently.

'DON'T!' John roared, his fists curled by his sides, his whole body tense. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, hand still hovering in the air.

'It is NOT okay.' John panted, pacing in front of the sofa in short flat strides, 'Whatever it is, it isn't "okay". Were you even planning to tell me? In that great, oh-so-superior brain of yours, did the thought of enlightening me about Markin ever float to the surface?'

Sherlock inwardly flinched at John's derisive, acidic tone, though he wasn't surprised. John was much more volatile when it came to emotions than he, and Sherlock had seen the smaller man explode like this on several occasions. It had sometimes been directed at him, though it had never contained such directed anger before.

'Just calm-'

'Don't tell me to calm down. Don't you _dare_….Don't you dare Sherlock Holmes!'

Sherlock lowered his hand. John continued to stare accusingly at him, his jumper clad chest rising and falling with his breathing.

'Well?' John spat. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, his face set in a cold mask.

'Well what?' He threw back, his own fingers clenching.

'Why didn't you tell me?' John's own eyebrows travelled up his forehead, his voice had an almost hysterical pitch. Sherlock, in truth, hadn't told John because he had thought it was information John didn't really need to deal with on top of their current situation with Moriarty. In his mind, it was for the best, why did John feel Sherlock had done him wrong? He was only trying to protect him after all.

'Did you know when we went to the Arches?' John continued.

'Yes.' Sherlock answered bluntly. 'But-'

'What? Too trivial for you to care?'

'No. Just listen-'

'Did you think I was too stupid to handle it?'

'Of course not. But-'

'Well then you better explain.' John snorted 'Because I, for one, don't understand.'

'If you let. Me. FINISH!' Sherlock shouted, feeling his pulse rise. Well that certainly wasn't going to help matters, if he got too emotional, all rational argument would just descent into childish 'yah boo sucks' jibes. He forcibly steadied his breathing, and continued.

'Markin was killed the day you got home from hospital. The killer then stored the body somewhere until he thought it funny to shove it in your wardrobe as a nasty reminder of what happened to you.'

John's face clouded as this sunk in, Sherlock felt a twinge of pity, but quickly felt it smothered by a sort of weird anger that John really couldn't see it, John was an idiot. His temper flared ever so slightly as John's mouth sagged open. God, didn't_ anything _sink into John's thick skull? Had nothing Sherlock ever tried to install in his brain stuck?

'The killer? But-'

'Oh well done.' Sherlock injected sarcastically, 'Finally, he gets it. Yes, Moriarty killed Terry Markin, yes he must have been involved with the kidnap, and yes, I knew about it but I didn't tell you because I didn't think you wanted to have to deal with that on top of everything else.' The last bit came out as more of a hurried babbling than the calm tone he wanted it to be. Thinking that maybe John had mellowed out a bit, Sherlock took a few steps closer. John didn't move away. Sherlock studiously ignored John's shaking fingers. He opened his mouth to elaborate further when John's gaze dropped to the floor. He had to press on. He had to make John understand.

'Look at it this way, Moriarty's made himself a nuisance to you too many times before. I didn't…I thought it'd be easier for you if he wasn't involved with Markin's body. I, thought I was-'

'You thought you were being noble. Shielding poor old John Watson from anything bad.' John laughed derisively, shaking his head in disbelief. He stepped backwards out of Sherlock's reach, a mirthless smile playing across his face. 'Was it fun for you? Keeping me in the dark while you played Mr Enigmatic? I bet it was a right laugh for you, watching me be confused.'

'John that's not-'

'No. Enough.' John barked, raising his own hand. 'I'm tired of feeling stupid so you can astound me with information that you already knew. I'm tired of being the last to know.'

'How is this any different from you keeping Sculptor from me?' Sherlock snapped back, abandoning any pretence at being calm now. Now, he was angry. He wasn't sure why, but he felt a hot, almost savage triumph when John froze.

'That's not…that's different…' John stammered, blinking rapidly. 'I was trying to protect you.'

A cruel, harsh laugh escaped Sherlock's mouth before he could stop it. 'Protect me? From what?'

_Stop it._ His brain warned, _you're bad at these social things. Stop before you go too far._

John's face tightened almost imperceptibly at Sherlock's response. But Sherlock just couldn't let it go. Really, what was the difference? Why was it that John was acting on best intentions but Sherlock was being malicious? It just didn't make sense. He found he was no longer interested in sparing John's feelings; he could deal with that later. All that mattered now was that he was _right_.

'In what way do you think you were protecting me? How weak are you that hiding things make it all go away in your stupid bloody head?'

_How weak. How worthless._

John didn't respond, but something in the way his shoulders sagged told Sherlock he had, indeed, gone too far. Sherlock inwardly winced at John's dead expression, like the doctor had just broken.

_Oh God. Say something. Get mad at me John. I'm sorry. Don't just stand there. Say something!_

John stayed silent, the word 'weak' hanging in the air like an invisible fog between them. For a long, agonising second Sherlock's mouth opened and closed of its own accord, unsure of how to retract the insult. He waited for an outburst from the man opposite him, waited for a punch, a shout, anything _please_…

'Fine.' John said softly, in a voice almost flat with resignation. 'I'll get outta your hair then.'

'What?'

John refused to elaborate further, he simply walked with a stiffness Sherlock had rarely seen towards what had once been his bedroom but was now just storage. Sherlock stood there, wanting to follow but he didn't dare. Silence filled the flat, oppressive and cold. Tentatively, Sherlock crossed the flat to the doorway of the storage room.

John was shoving an array of clothing into a black sports bag, viciously punching the fabric into it before starting on another. Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching with a thrill of dread.

'What are you doing?' He enquired.

'What does it look like detective? You don't want someone weak like me dragging you down. I'm leaving for a bit.'

Sherlock swallowed, his throat dry, 'When will you be back?'

His insides clenched, what if John decided not to come back?

_Of course he'll be back. He has to. You'll die without him, you know it._

John met his eyes briefly before dropping his gaze again. 'I don't know yet.'

Sherlock felt a surge of relief, hot and sickening in his stomach. So there was a possibility John wasn't, you know, _leaving _leaving. Still, if there was a chance to reconcile with him now, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to let it pass.

'John I-'

'Save it. You've said what you needed to say.'

'No. Please…'

John looked up expectantly. Sherlock couldn't help but feel glad that John was the worst actor in the world; Sherlock couldn't have read John's emotions easier even John had drawn him a picture. John didn't want to leave, not really…but Sherlock had hurt him, which was clear. Sherlock faintly remembered John's fear in the hospital that he would be too slow and too weak for Sherlock to stand. Sherlock had, however accidently, confirmed John's worst nightmare. He felt he should apologise, say it was just a slip of the tongue. It hurt the back of his head to realise that he, for once in his life, truly had nothing to say.

John zipped the bag shut. He seemed unwilling to look at Sherlock, as if scared his resolution would waver. Sherlock felt his palms go clammy, the sweat greasing the skin. Interesting. Even his hands were showing signs of agitation.

'It's fine.' John said shakily, 'I get it.' He made to swing the bag onto his shoulder, grimacing as the strap grazed the old wounds.

Sherlock shook his head. 'Don't go. Please. I'm- I'm sorry.'

John's arm stopped mid-swing. His head snapped up, his eyes seemed torn between shock, wonder and stark disbelief.

'What did you say?' He asked, voice wavering. Sherlock's knotted fingers were wound so tight Sherlock genuinely believed he may have to break them to untangle them again. He forced his dry mouth to work, shaping his tongue around alien words.

'I'm sorry.' He repeated. John arched an eyebrow sceptically.

'You never say 'sorry'.' Sherlock thought he detected a hint of dry humour in John's voice. Best not to push it though, he could be wrong.

'Don't go John.'

John hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Sherlock forced calm breaths through his nose, as he had in fact forgotten to breathe properly for a second or so.

'Sherlock I'm not sure-'He began, striding forward. Sherlock desperately blocked his way.

'No! I won't let you. I can't face this alone with you. You know I can't.' Sherlock pleaded. He inwardly cringed at the pathetic tone in his own voice. John raised his gaze to meet his. Sherlock wasn't sure what he saw in the one eyed stare. Hurt? Forgiveness? Resignation?

'Of course you can.' John replied simply. Sherlock shook his head. He was right, facing Moriarty without John was suicide, he needed someone to rely on, and John filled that need like nobody else he knew. John was like a rock, a foundation stone for everything he saw as vital, like a chain keeping him to reality.

Sherlock would have rather had his teeth pulled out than actually admitting this; instead he opted for silently pleading with his eyes. John seemed on the point of refusing, his mouth setting in a harsh thin line. It was there only a moment before his features melted into a sad little smile.

'What're you doing?' Sherlock asked stupidly as John turned from him and placed his bag on the floor.

'What does it look like genius?' John smirked back. Sherlock's brain, usually so keen and sharp, was a little slow on the uptake.

'You're—you're staying?' He spluttered, hardly daring to believe the worst was over. John looked at him with a_ of course you idiot _look on his face. Sherlock let out a ragged breath, leaning against the doorframe. John raised his eyebrows and held up his arms.

Sherlock was confused. What was that supposed to signify? He was on the verge of questioning further when John rolled his eyes and walked over to Sherlock.

'Come here idiot.' He murmured, wrapping his arms around the detective in a tight hug.

_Shutupshutupshutupdon'teventrytoquestionthis_ Sherlock's brain spluttered rapidly. He reached his arms around to place them on John's back, the jumper's itchy material scratching at his fingers. They stood for a moment, silent and unmoving, and then John pulled away, much to Sherlock's reluctance.

'You're not worthless.' Sherlock muttered, 'I really am sorry.'

'Shut up.' John smirked 'Don't spoil it.'

'Right.'

….

The guard's breath rushed out in one ragged gasp, blood spraying everywhere. Then, as swiftly as the horrible gurgling began, the man dropped to the floor, dead eyes lolling into his head.

Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust, carefully stepping around the mess. 'Couldn't you have been a little more delicate? Suits aren't cheap you know.'

Sculptor shrugged and wiped his scalpel between his thumb and forefinger. 'We don't have time for art and being careful. It's only a matter of minutes before those fatheads discover something's not right.'

Jim inclined his head, as if to say that he really couldn't care less. They could go on looking all day, but Sculptor and he would be long gone before they even found the guard with his throat slit. Sculptor tutted, like a babysitter trying to rein in a wayward child.

'Oh stop moping. Sebastian'll be back in a few months.'

Jim's eyes narrowed behind Sculptor's back, his fingers itching to throttle something. Sebastian would have at least tortured the guy a little bit first, get some information and the like. It annoyed him having to hack and slash their way without at least pretence at subtlety. His hand tightened its grip on the suitcase handle, relishing in the potential destruction he was carrying.

It was odd, he had to admit, being torn between wanting to cause chaos and hoping Sherlock Holmes would be clever enough to avert it in time. It was like a deadly game of chess between the two. Jim would win. Jim would always win.

'You done?' he snapped, stalking towards where Sculptor pulled off a protective plate from the electrical system.

'All yours.'

Jim knelt down, swiftly releasing the lid of the briefcase. It was always thrilling, looking at a mess of brightly coloured wires and casings. Enough explosives to take down a building.

A power station for example.

Jim supressed a giggle as he pressed the device between the wires, the timer glaring red.

Sculptor tilted his head; the red casting a weird pallor on his skin, his eyes looked bloodshot. Jim guessed he didn't look much better either.

'Moriarty?'  
>'What?'<p>

Sculptor's fingers clenched over his scalpel. 'When it comes down to it, it's you and Holmes. I understand that, I agreed to that.'

Jim nodded, 'What's your point?'  
>'What about his boyfriend?'<p>

'Oh,' Jim said carelessly, waving his hand, 'He's all yours, have your fun there.'

Sculptor nodded and grinned. Jim spat out a bit of chewing gum into his hand and pressed it onto the edges of the gap. Taking up the plastic plate, he covered back over his little adjustments. The timer began to count down.

'Showtime.' Jim smiled.

…

_Finally! This chapter is done! HUZZAH!  
>I will try to upload quicker next time, but no promises.<br>Next time: 'Isn't it obvious?' Sherlock spat 'He's made his first move. And if we don't respond, over two hundred people are dead!'_


	9. A File of Grave Importance

_How are you all darlings? If anyone's still reading this, I wholeheartedly thank you for your patience.  
>On a related note, THANK YOU FOR THE LOVELY REVIEWS! I am a horrible promise keeper.<em>

_Ok, I confess. Those of you who follow my stories probably found I did deviate slightly from my 'Sherlock' story to write a little 'Once Upon a Time' oneshot. It had to be done. Just add Rumplestiltskin to my list of 'People I Obsess Over.'_

…

John stirred and opened his eyes, giving a little defeated huff when he saw the time on the bedside alarm clock. Eight-thirty in the morning was quite a late time for him, seeing as being in the army gave you an internal rooster that bloody roused you at the bloody crack of bloody dawn. He stretched sleepily, and then turned to the mass of dark curls spread onto the pillow next to him.

He slapped the shoulder attached to them lightly, 'C'mon, get up.'

Sherlock grunted and deliberately turned away, seemingly determined to create a permanent impression of his face in the fabric. For his love of staying up at all hours, he could be a bloody prima donna about getting up when he wanted to be.  
>John briefly entertained the thought of pushing him off the bed; see how he liked being rudely awoken by having the floor become intimately acquainted with his face (payback for 'The Mysterious Goat of Liverpool' thank you very much) but decided to let him sleep. It was rare for Sherlock to get a healthy eight hours sleep, so John left him to it and tottered down to the kitchen. Tea and toast seemed to be the order of the morning, he thought, and he'd be damned if Sherlock was going to skip it, so he held some bread back should the detective decide to grace the kitchen with his presence at any point.<p>

Flicking through the television channels he found nothing of any interest. Thank God for running round the streets of London with Sherlock, or he might have got addicted to daytime antiquing shows then have it evolve into cookery shows. Then he'd be watching Loose Women and there'd be no hope at all for him. Hot tea scalded the roof of his mouth as he sipped it, causing him to have a coughing fit. Spluttering, he put the mug down.

'Tea too hot?' came a sleepy baritone from the doorway. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, the dressing gown loosely hanging off his wiry frame and his hair sticking up in an unruly manner. In a foolish attempt to preserve his dignity, John did a sort of semi-shrug and gestured with the remote control in his hand to the toaster.  
>'There's some left for you.'<p>

'Not hungry.'

John sighed, 'I don't want you fainting from hunger at crime scenes. Eat something.'

This earned him a childish scowl in reply.

John thought that now was time for desperate measures. He raised an eyebrow archly and looked down his nose at Sherlock.

'Don't make me order you.' He drawled, doing his best 'slimy Mycroft' impression. Sherlock smirked at the mockery and responded with a 'you're dirt to me' look of his own.

'I'd like to see you try' he challenged, but nevertheless plucked up a slice and popped in to the machine anyway. John returned to the television, triumphant.

A soft knock came at the door, accompanied by a familiar 'Woo-hoo.' Both men turned and saw Mrs Hudson lingering at the door.

'Morning boys, sorry, I just thought I'd pop up.'

John smiled, 'Of course, come in Mrs Hudson. Sherlock make a cup of tea for her.'

Both Sherlock and their landlady responded at the same time, their voices melting into one;

'Oh no dear, there's no need-'  
>'I'm sure she's quite capable of doing it herself.'<p>

'Nonsense.' John interrupted. Bestowing a smile on Mrs Hudson he said 'It's no trouble, besides we all agreed he has to be nice to you sometimes.' And then turned to Sherlock, 'Just do it.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if the two of them had conspired against him to make him do something mundanely domestic. As the hot water drowned the teabag, John could practically hear Sherlock's silent inward grumbling.

'Anyway I thought I'd just come say hello, seeing as you boys had a little bit of a tiff last night.' Mrs Hudson announced, causing a very awkward silence to fill the air between Sherlock and John.

John cleared his throat, 'You, er, heard that….then.'  
>He felt incredibly stupid for pointing out the obvious, something he knew Sherlock loathed. Of course, it was inevitable she would have heard, John had certainly not given any thought of being quiet in the middle of a blazing row. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and placed the steaming mug in front of their landlady.<p>

'Don't worry,' she cooed, 'Happens all the time. You young couples, always harping on at each other! I tell you, I don't know how Ms Turner manages to sleep at night.'

John inwardly balked at that. She meant well, but that was typical couples arguing over who's turn it was to empty the bins, or whose mother was worse, that sort of thing. His fight with Sherlock was less about the domestic and more about the psychosis of crime victims. He didn't see the point of arguing further, so gave a smile of the 'isn't life funny?' variety. Screwing up a bit more courage, he attempted his tea again. Ah. Much better.

Sherlock swooped down in front of him, plucking the morning paper from the table top. Ignoring the other two entirely, he began flicking through the stories with all the grace of crazed butcher on steroids.  
>'Boring…Boring….Boring….hmm, a locked building with—no, boring. Boring….Dull….Obvious….oh for God's sake!'<br>He threw the paper down in a huff, staring gloomily at his own cup of tea. John cleared his throat politely.  
>'Everything alright there?' he asked lightly.<br>Sherlock scowled at him. 'Why can't criminals be a little creative for once? Is it really too much to ask?'  
>Mrs Hudson stifled a smile behind her hand and patted his arm. 'I'm sure something will come up for you to challenge your fantastic brain.'<br>Sherlock smirked. John picked up the newspaper and began to browse through the articles. Apart from the Prime Minister demanding someone very important's resignation for some sort of scandal, there really wasn't anything of note. Certainly nothing to interest a fussy consulting detective.  
>'I dare say there will be Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock muttered, darkly confident, 'I'm sure there will be,'<p>

….

Lestrade sipped his coffee, grimacing a little when he discovered the liquid in the mug was tepid at best. He hated vending machine coffee, tasting of nothing but polystyrene and dust. All in all, a very unsatisfactory coffee.  
>The office was quieter than usual, which suited him down to the ground. Only soft office chatter and the occasional ringing telephone interrupted the peace and quiet of mid-afternoon. Lestrade liked it that way; it helped him imagine that he wasn't a DI in a department right in the heart of messy London. It was nice to have at least an hour where someone didn't get robbed, killed or otherwise become another case for his limited workforce. He'd rather be at home, his feet up and watching daytime television with a nice jam filled doughnut….<br>But, seeing as his wife was moving her stuff out in boxes, maybe not.  
>The door to his office opened and a polite cough reached his ears. Lestrade raised his eyes to see a rat-faced gentleman with too much oil in his hair leaning into the room.<br>'Inspector Lestrade?' he enquired, sounding a little timid.  
>'Er, Hi?' Lestrade answered, straightening up. 'Sorry, you are-?'<br>'Oh, I'm Klause.' The man smiled, entering the room, a thin file under his arm. His smile was easily confident, almost charming, But Lestrade couldn't shake the feeling something was a little off. Something in the eyes perhaps.  
>'Can I help you?' he asked, his voice maybe coming out a little more tartly than he intended. The man made a little 'ah' sound and slid the folder onto his desk.<br>'I'm er, not exactly part of Scotland Yard.' He confessed candidly. 'But my….superior wished you to be the recipient of this file, well, the first at least.'  
>'The first?' Lestrade asked, briefly scrutinising the blank beige cover.<br>'My employer wishes you to deliver this to one Mr Sherlock Holmes.'  
>Lestrade's head snapped up. 'Holmes? Is this…' he lowered his voice, 'Did Mycroft send you?'<br>The man beamed as if Lestrade had scored a point in some secret game and inclined his head in an enigmatic manner. Lestarde nodded in understanding and picked up the file, he barely had time to peel back a corner for a sneak peek when:  
>'Ah ah!' Klause chided, waving his finger jokingly. 'No cheating.'<br>Lestrade bit back his disappointment and shoved the file back. 'Fine. I'll phone him in, he'll get it this evening.'  
>'Splendid.' Klause smiled. By the time Lestrade looked up again, he was gone.<br>…

Sherlock frowned.  
>'This isn't from Mycroft.'<br>Lestrade's surprise was evident, he blinked owlishly. 'But I was sure it was, who else is a mysterious 'employer' giving you secret stuff?'  
>'My brother wouldn't send someone to send me information. Certainly not to <em>you <em>for a start.'  
>John's heart went out to the man as his face burned scarlet under the grey hair. He shared Sherlock's suspicion of the package but Jesus, there was no need to verbally bitch slap the poor guy.<br>'Sherlock…' he said in quiet warning. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.  
>'This is him.' Sherlock stated quietly. John felt a lead weight drop in his stomach, he had been afraid of that. But he knew this must have come, sooner or later. However, if he had his way, it would have come so late it wouldn't affect anything. Damn it, he thought, and they had had such a nice morning.<br>Lestrade looked crestfallen 'Jesus mate, I'm sorry! I should never have-'  
>'Better you deliver it than have a disaster happen without my knowledge' Sherlock cut in, 'You did the right thing.' He added, almost kindly.<br>'Did you catch the guy's name at least?' John asked. Lestrade nodded.  
>'Yeah….Klause, if I remember correctly.'<br>John's lead weight became a ball of ice. He exchanged dark glances with Sherlock, an act that did not go unnoticed by Lestrade.  
>'What? Who is he?'<br>Sherlock cleared his throat and avoided the Detective Inspector's eye. 'No-one to concern yourself with-'  
>'Oh cut the bullshit!' Lestrade snapped. 'What? What are you not telling me?'<br>John sighed and drew breath, when he was sure he had Lestrade's full attention, he explained…..  
>….<p>

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose and glared back up at them.  
>'So, not only does Sherlock have a psychopathic nemesis causing havoc, but you've got one all your fucking own?'<br>John gave a grim smile that Lestrade did not return.  
>'I don't believe this,' the Inspector huffed, 'I just do not bloody believe this.'<br>'No-one can Lestrade,' Sherlock cut in tartly. 'But seeing as John appears to a magnet for trouble, here we are.'  
>Sherlock leaned forward and flipped the folder open with carefully studied nonchalance. John felt muscles in his spine contract with something akin to superstitious dread. Photographs of faces printed in neat rows lined the first page, along with digits that may or may not have been payroll numbers. A symbol was emblazoned on the bottom right corner, company paper.<br>'Thoughts?' John asked. A little frown creased between Sherlock's brows as he peered at the photographs.  
>'Office workers. Clear from their haircuts and general demeanour. This symbol, ' he pointed to the paper's corner. 'Company emblem. Energy….'<br>'Power station? They've got that new place a few miles from here.' Lestrade offered helpfully. John saw Sherlock shoot the Inspector a glance of mild surprise. Encouraged, he went on;  
>'Yeah, a so-called 'clean energy' company. Just one of the branches owned by that Milverton bloke-'<br>'Charles Augustus Milverton?' Sherlock mused, 'I've heard rumours about him. Nothing gets people more desperate than blackmail material.'  
>'Blackmail?'<br>'You might want to keep an eye on him.'  
>John pushed a few photographs aside with his fingertips, only half-listening. The faces looked so…so <em>normal<em>. Normal office workers that, if part of whatever Moriarty had planned, were probably going to have an uncomfortable immediate future. Would it be worse? Having their faces imprinted faintly in his memory if they were carted off in coffins? Or would thinking like Sherlock, seeing them as 'victim number 4' and so on make it better?  
>He pushed the last face aside and saw another, slightly smaller photograph underneath. If they had just left the pile they might have missed it. John's heart dropped. As much as it hurt to admit it, he recognised the lights and wires as old acquaintances.<br>'Dear God…' Lestrade exhaled as he saw the bomb proudly displayed. More disturbing still was a hastily scrawled note beneath it;

_TICK TOCK BOOM BOOM._

Sherlock stared at the handwriting as though it was a dead serpent. Disgust mingled with a little bit of dread and perhaps….a tiny thrill. A deadline.

'When did you get this?'  
>'This afternoon.'<br>Sherlock, John and Lestrade all rushed towards the door in a flurry of movement. John spared a second to pick up his phone.  
>'Wait, wait. Wait!' Lestrade said, pulling up short. 'What are we doing? We need a plan! We can't just go rushing in like the bloody Avengers…'<br>'Oh yes,' Sherlock snapped back 'And while we do that, Moriarty'll just go blow up a few more buildings. Great plan!'  
>'Let me call my men in at least, just so they're clear on what's going on!' Lestrade retorted.<br>'Isn't it obvious?' Sherlock spat 'He's made his first move. And if we don't respond, over two hundred people are dead!'

….

_I'm so mean.  
>Next time: 'John held his breath until the footsteps died away, this was going to be more trouble than they had first anticipated.'<em>


	10. Tick Tock

_Hey guys __ Hope you all had a spookily good Hallowe'en and a fantastic Christmas! Hope 2013 brings everything you deserve!  
>Urgh. This is getting harder and harder to write. Seriously. I feel awful making you guys wait so long for a story that is so BLOODY slow to develop…<br>So, quick recap: Bad guys gloating, Good guys stressed. Stuff about to go kablooey._

…_._

London flew by in a grey drizzly blur. The noises of the city dulled by the throbbing pulse in his own ears. No-one in the car spoke a word as the car sped to the power plant except Lestrade barking orders down the phone.  
>'I don't care if the bloody King of Narnia has turned up; you get the bomb squad down there NOW!'<br>Sherlock's mind was whirring. Even if the bomb was found and deactivated in time, there was surely a Plan B to whatever Moriarty was doing. If there wasn't additional trouble he'd be incredibly surprised. He could see the solid shape of John sat stiffly in his peripheral vision and vaguely wondered whether there would be any trouble with Lestrade bringing civilians to a danger zone. Even he had to admit it was stupid of them to be tagging along, charging in and undoubtedly putting everyone at risk.  
>The car pulled up to the gates of the power plant. Sherlock barely listened as Lestrade ordered clearance to the haggard security guard. The man had probably been up since the crack of dawn, and a suspected bomb was most certainly not going to get him home any quicker. Rain formed droplets on the car's windows as they lingered.<br>By the time they arrived at the entrance the evacuation was underway in full force. Confused employees were being shunted into minivans whilst having random shouts of 'This way please!' and 'Move it people!' barked in their faces. Sherlock sprang from the car and marched up to the doors in long strides.

'Excuse me Sir!' a bomb squad member called, rushing forward, 'You have to leave, there may be a bo-'  
>'There most certainly is a bomb.' Sherlock cut across him, not bothering to mince around. Time of the essence and all that. 'And I'd be most grateful if you got out the way.'<p>

Lestrade caught up to him and flashed his badge to the youngster. 'Do as he says mate.'

'I'm sorry Sir, but I have my orders-'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made to barge through and was most surprised when the man shoved him back.

'I said NO. I'm sorry.'

Sherlock glared but had no choice but to obey. He backed down. Lestrade also found himself shunted back to the car where John was surveying the scene.

'No luck?'

'Well, I can't say I'd ever thought that I'd be sorry the bomb squad did their job correctly.' Lestrade mused, pinching the bridge of his nose with exasperation. All three of them turned back to look at the people fluttering in around in a dignified panic.

Sherlock huffed, 'We need to get inside, they let Moriarty slip past them, but now they're being embarrassingly thorough.'

John exhaled and let his eyes roam over the scene. A stairwell was tucked round the left hand side of the building, leading to a big red fire escape. As John watched, two more men came out of the building and, in their rush, the door didn't completely close.

John nudged Sherlock with his elbow and jerked his head in the direction of the stairwell. Sherlock frowned for a second and then broke into a sly grin.

'Excellent.'

John raised his eyebrows questioningly at Lestrade, who in turn sighed in good-natured exasperation and gave them a _Do NOT let them catch you _glare. He then deliberately turned away from them and began to study a nearby lamp post with feigned interest.

Sherlock hissed 'Come on' and grabbed John by the elbow, effectively dragging him in the direction of the stairwell, when both men were a good few feet from Lestrade, they broke into a run.

Lestrade heard a shout from a member of the bomb squad as the lad spotted somebody going into an out-of-bounds area. Glancing back he saw the edge of a navy Belstaff whip around a closing red door. Biting back an amused smile, he looked around with benignly bland confusion.

'Oh no guys..' he said in a low, barely audible voice, 'Don't do that. Someone stop them…'

…

'Right.' John asked as soon as they were inside and the door clicked shut behind them. 'What now?'

'We find the bomb.' Sherlock answered, raising an eyebrow at the endearingly obvious question. 'Find it. Stop it.'

'Good plan.'

'Thank you.'

John smiled thinly, 'And if we run into Moriarty or…or the other one?'

Sherlock shrugged in a way that suggested he didn't particularly care, 'Hit them repeatedly with a large brick? Or just shoot them if you're not feeling particularly creative.'

John mirrored the shrug. 'Oh don't tempt me.'

Sherlock looked around them. 'The bomb'll most likely be in the underground levels, more damage potential that way.' It seemed unreal, being back in this situation. Sherlock could almost hear the ticking clock in the concrete walls.

'Split up?' John suggested. Sherlock turned to face him, weighing up the pros and cons. If they went alone, there was more danger for them individually. If they did two separate searches, there was double the chance of the bomb being found.

'Split up.' He agreed.

…..

Sherlock swore under his breath. This was the fifth damn cleaning cupboard he'd come across whilst trying every door. If he were in some sort of thrilling novel or one of those stupid action DVDs in John's collection, he'd be face to face with the bomb or some villainous lunatic by now. If the bomb was hidden in one of the cupboards (which he sincerely doubted), he was a little put off by the idea of dying amidst mops and cleaning fluids. He slammed the door shut again with undue force and set off down another featureless corridor at breakneck speed. This was getting ridiculous. His instincts told him the bomb should be hidden somewhere in plain sight, as was Moriarty's style, why was so wrong so far?  
>Suddenly the phone in his pocket beeped out the text message alert. Sherlock whipped it out and opened it, maybe it was John, had he found it?<p>

_I know you're here. M x_

Oh that was _it._ He'd have to change his phone number as soon as possible. Seemed a bit pointless Moriarty sending him threatening texts when he all but begged Sherlock to fix the messes he was making. Of course Sherlock would be here. Nevertheless, curiousity got the better of him and he fired of a reply:

_How?_

It took only a few seconds before his phone beeped again.

_Top corner on your right. Smile xx_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced up. True enough, tucked amongst pipes and wires was nestled a tiny little black webcam. It was so small he wouldn't have seen it unless he looked for it. He inwardly lambasted himself for being so careless, how many cameras had tracked his every movement? Was John also being watched? His fingers flew across the keypad again.

_Are you here?_

As he waited, he fired off a warning text to John about the cameras. Moriarty's reply came soon after.

_Within explosion distance? Don't be stupid sweetheart. X  
>P.S. You're wasting time. Tick Tock.<em>

Sherlock pocketed the phone, politely told the webcam where to shove it and ran off down a corridor. The distraction was a stupidly unoriginal technique, but even more galling was that Sherlock had allowed him to do it.

His footsteps sounded odd in the muted environment, but he kept on running.

…

John craned his neck around a corner, checking for signs of life. It was like being in one of those weird video games Harry had been playing recently, empty corridors where you plodded along until a zombie came out of nowhere and ate you. Thankfully, there were no zombies in London just yet, one less thing to worry about.

There was a couple of maniacs though, that always kept London on its toes.

Pushing open a door he found an empty stairwell, the red neon lights making it glow eerily. Remembering what Sherlock said about lower levels, John set off downwards into the bowels of the building. Feeling ever more creeped out as he did so.

He saw a door to the below level and pushed it open. For a second he stood still, and heard the sound of footsteps.

_Footsteps?_

John pressed himself flat against the wall, nearing a corner slowly. An old muscle memory twitched and his hand flew up to his ear, ready to relay information to his unit via an earpiece that wasn't there. He thrust his hand back down, squirming at his own silliness. This wasn't a mission, not the army, just anarchy in the UK. Different war, different soil.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump. Fishing it out silently he glanced at the brightly lit screen:

_Be careful. Moriarty's watching us. S._

Cameras. Great. That's all they bloody needed. John glanced around him, visually sweeping his immediate surroundings for bugs. There didn't seem to be any, but that didn't mean he wasn't being watched. He sent a text of his own.

_There's someone down here._

He waited in silence for a few moments then began tip-toeing his way down the corridor the sound of footsteps had come from. There seemed no sign of any other living being down here. Maybe he'd imagined it, his brain creating an enemy where there was nothing but his own paranoia. But then again, knowing Sherlock's world, there _was_ some nutter.

A few seconds later, a message came through from Sherlock again.

_Follow them. But be careful._

John couldn't help but roll his eyes. What did Sherlock think he'd do? Run full pelt at the loonies? He'd spent a good three decades being careful, it was a hard habit to break. He slowly walked down the space, treading as lightly as he could. There were no more sounds. For a moment, John contemplating asking aloud if anyone was hiding, but decided that was probably a stupid move.

A heavy door was nestled between cardboard boxes and fire extinguishers and through the barred window John could see yet another empty corridor beyond. With a tug the door swung free and John poked his head through to get a better look. Nothing.

Sighing he reclosed the door. As the door clicked shut the sound of footsteps began again.

John stood very still, listening carefully. With the echoes it was night impossible to tell which direction the noise was coming from.

Except that they were coming closer.

'Oh shit.' John breathed, turning to duck behind the cardboard boxes piled in a heap beside the door. His knees groaned in protest as he squeezed himself into the tight space, craning his neck at an almost painful angle to glimpse through a gap with his good eye.

A dark shape came around the corner in a brisk stride, when it came into view John's grip involuntary tightened.

The Sculptor paused. He stood mere inches from John's peep hole. John pressed his lips together to cover the sound of his rapid breathing. His knuckles were white as his fingernails dug deeply into the palm. He could see every line in the skin on the Sculptor's hand…_Oh God…Is the BLOOD on his fingers?_

The hand flexed, as if Sculptor could feel John's terrified breath. For a split second, John felt a surge of hot, white blinding rage. He could do it. Spring from where he crouched and slam the man into a chokehold so tight it would hurt his own hand. To see the veins pop in the neck, for the eyes to bulge as the air was strangled out of him…to feel bloodied hands claw at him as their owner fought for life…

He could do it.

As quickly as it came, the monster within him died and fled. Every muscle tensed and seemed to be made of stone. His own body betrayed him, refusing his commands to move. His jaw ached where his teeth were clenched together. He watched Sculptor's fingers curl and uncurl, almost hypnotised, it was impossible for him to close his eyes or look away.

The hand then did something John never would've expected. It curled again as the index finger extended to point back the way he'd come.

_God help me. He knows I'm here!_

'That way John' Sculptor whispered silkily.

John's throat tightened, not daring to confirm his presence. Was the man actually giving him tips? Why? He didn't even dare to blink. There was no way in Hell he'd trust anything that crawled out of that poisonous mouth. As he struggled to draw breath, the hand vanished and the man began making his way down through the corridor.

John held his breath until the footsteps died away; this was going to be more trouble than they had first anticipated. Once the echoes had died away, all the breath left his lungs in one explosive rush, his windpipe feeling tinier than it did. Shakily rising to his feet John accidently knocked over a few of the boxes, causing them to make dull crashing noises in the suffocating silence. He planted his hands on the opposite wall as he composed himself. Seconds passed and the dizziness subsided. Straightening up John squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open as he stared blankly in the direction the Sculptor had disappeared. As if pulled by some invisible wire, his feet shuffled a few paces to follow the man. He wanted to know where Sculptor was going, just in case they direction he'd pointed out was a lie. Maybe if he could catch up to him, he could stop him, get information from him…

_What ARE you doing?! Get as far away from that monster NOW!_

John felt physically wrenched backwards, his own disgust propelling him backwards. Every fibre of his being screaming at him to turn and run.

And yet…

John whirled himself around and hurried down to where Sculptor pointed. His own footfalls sounded thunderous to his own ears as he pelted his way down the steel corridors.

…

The air seemed even colder down here, John noticed. Not so much as to make his breath steam in the air but cold enough to raise the hairs on his neck and arms.

He paused at what met his eyes as he turned the corner. Two feet splayed at a careless angle. After a brief moment of surprise he ran forward, his medical side kicking into high gear.

'Are you alright ma-'

He drew up short, eye widening in horror. The man was very certainly dead, his skin grey, save for the vivid scarlet gash across the throat. Died and congealed blood pooled on the floor around him turning a shade of brown. John's nose wrinkled involuntarily at the sharp metallic scent and he turned away in disgust, swearing to himself.

There was no question, none at all, of whose handiwork _that _was. John sighed with pity and kneeled next to the corpse and closed the man's staring glazed eyes with shaking fingers. A blood splattered name-badge hung awkwardly from the guard's chest. John couldn't help himself; he peered at the laminated photograph and took note of the printed name. Another name, another victim, another statistic to be filed away in and never thought of again. John thought of the little boy, murdered only days ago to get Sherlock's attention and now this man who was just "collateral damage" at his feet. It seemed to John every senseless death was another shard of ice to cling to his heart.

His miserable train of thought was interrupted by a faint high-pitched beeping. He turned to follow the sound and realised it came from a small panel not three feet from where he crouched. A dawning sense of horror was oddly mixed with a feeling of satisfaction. He'd found it.

His hands scrambled for his phone and he called Sherlock, who picked up on the second ring.

'John?'

'Yeah, I've found it. Basement….east corner.' John said rapidly. Glancing back at the guard's body he felt a ripple of hollow guilt as he realised he couldn't remember the name he'd read. David?...Daniel?

'And get Lestrade.' He finished lamely.

…..

The three of them stood around the grey panel, Lestrade threw a pitied glance to the body.

'Poor sod.' He said quietly.

Sherlock however, rolled his eyes. 'Priorities Lestrade.'

Lestrade didn't even bother to respond. John tentatively reached out to pull off the panel.

'Be careful.' Sherlock said unnecessarily, making John flinch. Lestrade found himself sucking in a breath and holding it, bracing himself for a sticky and untimely end….which was greatly quelled as John pulled off the panel with relative ease, revealing scarlet wires and a lump of plastic explosives. A small timer flashed in regular beats accompanied by the telltale _blip_ of an electronic countdown. They had all of three minutes left.

'W-Where are the bomb squad?' John asked shakily.

'Bringing their equipment down.' Lestrade replied, fishing for his phone. The three men shared a grave look.

'There's no time.' Sherlock said simply. 'We'll have to do it ourselves.'

Lestrade couldn't help himself, a small incredulous laugh exploded from his chest.

'We don't know the first thing about bombs Sherlock! Jesus Christ!'

Sherlock shot him a familiar 'Silence puny mortal' smirk and crouched near John in front of the device.

'_You _don't know the first thing about bombs, I've made a point to do some extensive research on the subject.'

Lestrade squirmed uncomfortably, well aware of his two friend's brush with bomb loving maniacs. It didn't strike him as remotely odd Sherlock would find out the ins and outs of things that go kaboom. Just in case.

'We need to cut the red wire.' Sherlock announced.

'What?'

'It's always the red wire.' Sherlock said simply, turning to look at John, 'In those boring spy films you made me watch, right?'

John gaped. 'That's _Hollywood _Sherlock! This is an ACTUAL bomb. With ACTUAL explosives and if we don't get the fuck out of here _right now_ we're going to be found in bits. ACTUAL BITS!'

Lestrade hurriedly whipped his head around, if push came to shove, he could hurl his two friends around a corner and then dive for cover. Beneath all the panic Lestrade felt pure silver line of clarity; he was probably going to die here. With his two best friends. It was going to be a messy end, but the company was the best he could have hoped for in the circumstances.

This thought was rudely interrupted by John and Sherlock sniping at each other.

'You can't stop a bomb with sheer intellect Sherlock!' John snapped, 'We should just go!'

'No! I have to stop this, I can't let Moriarty win this round-'

'FUCK your 'game'! We'll die if we stay here! Or should we just stay here whilst you try to outthink explosives?!'

'I hate to interrupt,' Lestarde cut in irritably, pointing at the timer that was now on 2 minutes and rapidly counting down, 'But we're on a bit of deadline.'

Sherlock shot both of them a cold stare and returned to glaring at the bomb and ran his hands over the wires, much to Lestrade's intense discomfort. Pale fingers plucked at the wires, to which both Lestrade and John winced. Sherlock ignored both of them.

'Something's wrong.' He mused.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. There was a _lot _wrong with this situation. Every hair on his skin was stood to attention and his imagination ran away with him as he imagined what death would feel like.

_Calm down Greg. He's brilliant. There's still time…_

'50 seconds.' John said flatly.

_What?!_

Lestrade whipped round and gripped Sherlock by the shoulders.

'Time's up Einstein.' He said, physically hauling the tall man to his feet.

'No! I'm not finished!'

Lestrade looked to John. The smaller man glanced back at him with an iron hard resolve and he stepped forward. Sherlock's surprise doubled as John wrapped his arms around him and joined Lestrade's efforts to pull him away.

'John no!' Sherlock yelled, 'I know! I know what he's done!'

John ignored him as they both dragged Sherlock, who was twisting and writhing in desperation to break free of their grip. Lestrade couldn't help but feel a little guilty. His foot slipped slightly in the murdered man's blood, causing him to slide a little. Glancing back at the bomb the red numbers seemed even brighter as to burn his retinas. His own heartbeat sounded slow and thunderous in his ears and appeared to muffle all sound. Distantly he heard John yelling, Sherlock yelling and quiet, steady beeps. Perhaps he was shouting too, it was incredibly difficult to tell.

'I KNOW!'

'Leave it Sherlock! We gotta go!'

'You don't understand!'

'10 seconds!'

'Oh Jesus GET DOWN!'

'IT'S NOT REAL! THE BOMB'S A FAKE! IT'S A FAKE!'

All three men hit the ground with a force that forced all breath from their lungs. Lestrade tensed his body for the colossal explosion.

Except no explosion came.

Shakily Lestrade clambered onto his elbows. Perhaps the counter hadn't reached zero yet? They waited, Lestrade and John looking about them in frightened confusion. Sherlock was now sat with his back poker straight against the wall, staring at them with cold thin-lipped fury.

A small popping sound came from around the corner. Lestrade shakily got to his feet and had a look.

The cover of the clock had been pushed off by a spring that had apparently been connected to the timer. On the end of the spring was a big yellow smiley face.

'What the-?' came John's breathless voice.

The three of them got nearer, Sherlock yet to say anything. Lestrade heaved a massive sigh of relief. Glancing at the other two, he saw nothing but confusion on John's face, nothing but anger on Sherlock's.

'He played us.' John stammered, looking to Sherlock. 'There was never any danger?'

Sherlock didn't respond as his mobile went off. He opened the new text message with nothing but contempt. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder at the message:

_GOTCHA.  
>I'll let you have that one sweetheart. You DID get it right after all. M x<em>

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes. Lestrade extended his arm and lightly placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

'It's ok mate, we're alive.'

'He tricked me.' Sherlock said coldly, leaning forward to inspect the fake explosive. 'The components are real. But there's no connection. See?'

Reaching into the cavity he plucked a scarlet wire out of the hole. Now it was in the light, Lestarde could clearly see the frayed end of a cut wire.

'If either of you _idiots_ had let me finish. I could have told you.'

Lestrade begin to feel his face flush, but tried to fight it down. There was no way he'd let Sherlock make him ashamed of trying to save his friends. He'd have done it if the bomb was real. He'd gladly do it again.

Sherlock straightened and walked to a fire extinguisher that was on the wall. He picked it up with ease.

'He tricked me.' He said, eerily calm, feeling the weight of the thing in his hands.

John frowned. 'Sherlock?'

'He made me look like an IDIOT!'

With an almighty strength Lestrade never suspected, Sherlock flung the fire extinguisher along the length of the corridor, where it clanged loudly as it bounced on the hard ground.

'Jesus Sherlock!' John hissed. Lestrade cleared his throat with unease. Sherlock stood with his back to them, breathing heavily. John glanced at Lestrade apologetically and took a few steps toward the detective and touched him gently on the upper arm. Without a word Sherlock shrugged him off violently, causing John to look hurt. Sherlock turned, not even looking at his partner. He didn't look at anyone. With a final disdainful glance at the bomb, Sherlock stalked away at top speed.

Lestrade could only watch helplessly as John set off after him. In the silence he cast an eye at the poor guard, lying where he'd been attacked. Heaving a massive sigh, Lestrade phoned Donovan.

'Hey it's me, listen, get the guys from homicide down here. We're ok but there's a poor bastard with his throat slit down here.'

The precious few seconds that followed Donovan disconnecting before the bomb squad burst into view were perhaps the longest in his life. Gregory Lestrade suddenly felt a lot older than he had ever done before in his life.

…

_Well. That was tense._

_This was a BUGGER. To. Write. I had writer's block a mile wide. This was going to be uploaded a good fortnight ago but I came down with a bad headcold, which was most inconvenient._

_I can only thank you guys enough for being so patient with me. There is a plot here I promise, it's just agony getting it into words._

_Thank you xx_

_Next time: 'John?' 'Mmm?' That man's been watching you for over ten minutes.' _


	11. My Reasons for Playing

_So guys, how's life treatin' ya?_

_Hopefully my last chapter wasn't too boring for you, I'm really bad at writing balls-to-the-wall action scenes. _

_Let's play a game; what'll come around first? My next chapter or Series 3? I know you guys get tired of me apologising and promising to upload quicker. Life's really kind of swept me up at the moment and I rarely get time to continue this. While I can't promise quick updates, I can and will promise that I intend to see this story through to the end. Scout's Honour._

…

John clenched his jaw and flipped a page of the newspaper with undue force.

'That's getting annoying!' He said in a sing-song voice.

Sherlock gave a low chuckle and let loose yet another rendition of Grieg's 'Hall Of The Mountain King' on his violin. It had been fun at first, but after the first fourty-seven times was beginning to get a little grating. John had tried pleading, ordering, threatening Sherlock to just stop. In the end it had descended into a bit of a scuffle where John had gotten up and physically tried to wrestle the damn instrument off him. But then Sherlock had kissed him. Which John considered cheating.

Moriarty had not made another move in almost three weeks. In that time Sherlock had solved two murders, three thefts and one particularly odd case that involved both him and John in ballet gear. Apparently Anderson still had photos.

However, Sherlock was restless, John could tell. There was no other reasonable explanation for the Mountain King binge (well, apart from his normal Sherlockiness) than hidden apprehensiveness. John couldn't deny that he was a little on edge himself. Since the fiasco at the power station he found himself startling at shadows, nervous to open the post in the mornings for fear of what sinister clues he might find.

'John?' Sherlock said sharply, making John jump.

'Huh?'

'I said 'anything interesting?' twice. Honestly, you're getting as bad as me.'

John made a face and flipped back to the beginning of the newspaper. He scanned the print, looking for anything that might meet Sherlock's sky-high standards. It was highly unlikely there would be a Moriarty themed double page spread. Blocks of miniscule text morphed into a visual equivalent of white noise so he huffed and put the paper down.

'No.'

'Nothing?'

'Nothing.'

Sherlock made a strange noise that fell somewhere between a growl and a whine. 'Why has he not done anything? Why hasn't he made his next move?'

John blinked and fixed him with a one-eyed stare. 'You want him to?'

Sherlock put the violin down, much to John's relief. He didn't think he could take another go around the mountain.

'I don't want him to kill people, obviously.' Sherlock said defensively, his face haughty, 'But the longer he plays his little game the closer I get to beating him.'

'Beating him?'

'_Stopping_ him John.'

John continued to look at Sherlock as the latter sunk into his chair. Sherlock suddenly looked incredibly weary, not an expression that suited his face. John hated it when he looked like that.

'It's like a puzzle…' Sherlock began, then cut himself off, 'no, that's not right…it's like…more like a chess board.'

'I see….' John said, not really seeing at all. 'Two masters. Ultimate game.'

Sherlock leaned his head back a tad and regarded John with steely eyes. John braced himself for a monologue about how idiotic his statement was; surprised the word 'WRONG' wasn't floating about his head in big white letters. For a moment, Sherlock looked a little unsure of himself, then steepled his fingers under his chin and continued.

'Yes and no. A battle of minds, yes, But game? I don't think so. A game is done for fun. I do this because I have to. I _need _the distractions he provides John…'

He trailed off as John mulled over the last words, not exactly a sentiment he could understand or approve of. You needed air, food and shelter to survive. You didn't need crazy Irishmen lobbing bombs at you.

'You haven't seen me when I'm bored John-'

'Bloody well have.' John interjected 'I still haven't got that green off the kettle-'

'I mean _really _bored John.' Sherlock said emphatically, 'In my late teens….I'm not proud. I felt trapped, suffocated, I contemplated suicide at one point.'

John inhaled sharply, not trusting himself to say anything. Suicide was never something, even in his darkest moments, on his agenda. John was too frightened to die. Concern and shock wrestled within him, but was soothed by the absolute certainty that Sherlock was too_ stubborn_ to die. Sherlock was still here.

'I hated everything, hated everyone.' Sherlock continued, almost more to himself than to John. His eyes were fixed to an empty space on the floor in front of him. 'I needed a way out. I met some people when I travelled around Europe. People that could help.'

'Drugs.' John said plainly.

'Like I said, I'm not proud.'

John drew his mouth into a thin line in an attempt to make a reassuring smile. Never before had Sherlock talked so openly about his past troubles. He wasn't completely sure if Sherlock was explaining everything for John's benefit, or his own. It was difficult enough for John to open up and talk about his army days; he could only imagine what it was doing to Sherlock's pride. Silence filled the void between them, all words escaping John. He should say something comforting, something sympathetic and supportive, but nothing came.

Sherlock broke the silence himself. 'It took Mycroft a whole year to bring me home. _That's _what real, true boredom is like. If I have something like Moriarty to face, something to force me into protecting others then maybe I don't have to cave in on myself.'

John found his voice. 'And when you beat him?'

Sherlock looked at him sharply and John realised his mistake. To him, it was a question of _when_. To everyone else it was more a question of _if_. He'd just added a little pebble to the mountain of stones that made up the pressure on Sherlock to be victorious.

To his surprise, Sherlock cracked a slight smile. 'Then on the next adventure I suppose.'

John returned the smile, the air in the room seemed to have thawed. At that moment, a text alert rang out from John's phone.

'It's Lestrade.' John said, glancing at the screen, 'He's asking if you're coming tonight.'

'What?' Sherlock said, confusion clouding his face.

'Tonight. Pub. We talked about this this morning?'

'No-one asked me.'

John smirked at Sherlock's petulant tone as he stood and crossed the room for Sherlock's phone. Opening all the unread messages he flicked through them.

'Greg did. 6 times by the look of it.' John knew Lestrade had been texting Sherlock all day and was being repeatedly ignored. Watching his own inbox be filled with ever more irate texts had been rather amusing. However, he did assure Lestrade his Lordship was indeed coming, knowing Sherlock would tolerate the outside world if Lestrade and himself were there.

'Will you come?'

'Hmm?'

'To the pub Sherlock.'

Sherlock seemed to genuinely weigh the pros and cons, John could practically hear the cogs grinding in his head. Whether Sherlock would actually accompany him or not, John was spending the evening out with friends and Sherlock could go sulk on the sofa all night for all he cared.

'Come on,' he said at length, 'It'd be nice to have a night without being threatened, I'll catch up with mates and we'll all have a bet to see how long it takes you to make the bartender cry.'

It took all of three seconds for a smug smile to flit across the pale face.

'Done.' Sherlock said.

…..

The pub wasn't nearly as crowded as it would have been on a weekend, but it wasn't completely dead either. Conversation melded with the low volume radio to create a pleasant hubbub of noise. Lestrade and Anderson were already there. Sherlock greeted both of them with customary detached loftiness. John suspected Sherlock and Anderson had signed a contract to not be so openly catty to one another since they'd reached a tentative understanding. Anderson had even warmed up to John a little since he'd returned from hospital, inviting him here in the first place. John took it as a given he and Sherlock would never be friends, not in the slightest, but at least they weren't itching to get at each other's throats anymore. He greeted the forensics man with a nod and settled down to order a pint while Sherlock strode in with his usual dramatic flair.

'He came then?' Lestrade said cheerfully.

'God help us.' Anderson added, taking a sip out of his pint. Lestrade gave him a playful thump in the shoulder as John sat down.

'Don't worry, he's looking to make the barman cry.'

'I call dibs on fifteen minutes.' Lestrade cut in immediately, to John's wry amusement.

…..

It took seventeen minutes for the poor attendant at the bar to storm off. John pushed the over salted peanuts to Sherlock, who was then too engaged in wrinkling his nose to notice Anderson discreetly passing a fiver over to Lestrade, who pocketed it with well concealed glee. John smirked and pulled the peanuts back, popping a few into his mouth. He sat in the routine, well ingrained into him from years at university, listening to his mates chatter about the issues of the day and only injecting his profound 'Mmm yeah' when asked his opinion. Sherlock drummed his fingertips on the bartop and, despite the fact he's clearly rather not be here, drank his pint in good natured, dignified silence. When asked about things, he just answered with a short 'Boring, not in my interests.' John didn't mind, it was almost normal, drinking with friends.

Time passed, and when night rolled round Lestrade and Anderson had left, blaming their early morning starts. John and Sherlock stayed behind, John finishing his pint. He'd made two pints last for almost four hours so he didn't feel particularly intoxicated; if anything, he felt just as sober as he did this morning.

Sherlock's voice cut in through the lull. 'John?'

'Mmm?'

'That man's been watching you for over ten minutes.'

John resisted the urge to whip his head around. Slowly he raised his head and glanced at Sherlock, who was staring at him so intently it was a bit unnerving. Sherlock's eyes then slid past him to a spot behind them, then slid right back to his hand on the bartop. John made a play of stretching his arms and turned his head in what he hoped was a casual movement. A bearded man with grizzled fair hair was indeed watching him, a grim expression on a haggard face. As soon as he caught John's movement he hastily hunched over to study what appeared to be a dog-eared notebook. John turned back and downed the rest of his pint.

'What do you we do?' He said under his breath to Sherlock.

'I'll pretend to leave. Wait for twenty minutes, then follow out back. If he follows we'll have a nice little chat.'

John clenched his jaw. He was not entirely convinced this was a good plan. The uncertainty must have shown in his face, for Sherlock gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

'Trust me.'

John nodded curtly, squeezing Sherlock's hand back for a second. Sherlock stood up, slapped a few twenties on the counter with one smug look at the bartender, then swept on his navy coat and left. John cast a quick look over his shoulder in what he hoped was careless nonchalance. The bedgraggled man had apparently taken the same 'be stealthy' lessons as his eyes swept the room- resting on John for a few seconds- in one large, 'totally not obvious' inconspicuous movement. The man's eyes seemed a shade of pale watery blue, dull with weariness and whatever secrets he kept in his notebook.

_Nineteen minutes._

John watched the small television in the corner of the bar, trying to lip-read whatever the glamorous female presenter was saying with such enthusiasm.

_Fifteen minutes._

John ordered a pint of water to waste time, the warm buzz of beer was quickly extinguished by the cold water and apprehension. Maybe there had been some mistake, maybe the man was just an innocent patron that just happened to look around the room. Perhaps he wouldn't follow when John left, and he and Sherlock could go home without incident. He knew the chances of that happy fantasy were very slim, but he clung to it nonetheless.

_Nine minutes._

People began to filter out of the bar, businessmen and women heading home because of early mornings. John glanced at his watch, it wasn't late in the evening by normal standards, but it made the bar feel so much bigger.

The man never moved.

_Three minutes._

John chewed the fingernail of his index finger until the surrounding skin got sore. The air felt thick and he had to concentrate to breathe.

_Showtime._

John stood up and readjusted his jacket, not daring to cast a final glance at the stranger behind him. The sooner he could get outside-back to Sherlock- the better he'd feel. Slamming the remainder of the money he owed on the table he stretched his arms, shaking out the heaviness of inactivity.

No-one so much as glanced at him as he picked his way through to the exit. Stepping out into the night air he drew in a lungful of cold air to clear his head. Sherlock had told him to meet him around the back, somewhere unsavoury and empty to meet yet another potential psychopath. Fantastic.

Sherlock was leant against a grimy brick wall when he made his way around there, it took John a few moments to see him, in the dark it appeared as though he had blended into his surroundings. The second Sherlock saw John he visibly relaxed and flashed a little smirk.

'Any fun?'

'What you mean sat there on my own while some random bloke sat in the corner and looked at me a few times? Yeah, Bloody spectacular.' John griped back. Sherlock chuckled lowly.

'You think I'd have left you alone with a violent man? I don't think he means to harm you John.'

'Sherlock do you ever just think that _maybe _sometimes it's just some random bloke?'

'I couldn't read much of him-well, save for the nervous energy from his posture- I need to know what he wants.'

John opened his mouth to shoot back something sarcastic when a noise caught both their attention. Sherlock's eyes hardened and slid past John to whatever movement he could see in the background. Sherlock quickly pulled John into the deeper shadows and pressed him against the wall, using his arm as a barrier against John's chest. John heard a rustle of movement again.

'Sherl-'

'Sssh!' Sherlock hissed.

A shadow flitted over the walls as a man of stocky build tiptoed his way near them. It wasn't until the dull lamplight caught his straw coloured mop that John knew it was the man from the pub.

The second the man came into view Sherlock viciously launched himself from the wall until the man was slammed into the opposing bricks, head bouncing with the impact.

'Who are you?' Sherlock bellowed. The man grunted as Sherlock's arm pushed roughly against his chest. John swore under his breath and made to grab Sherlock's arm. Their would-be stalker spluttered and flailed under Sherlock's grip.

'What do you want?' Sherlock repeated voice alarmingly loud and threatening. John felt a flutter of panic at the possibility someone might call the police, he doubted a typical bobby on the beat would be quite so tolerant of Sherlock as Lestrade was.

'I'm-I'm here to help!' the man gasped, waving his hands frantically as Sherlock squinted suspiciously. 'The Sculptor. I know him! Look don't hurt me man, I'm not on his side I swear!'

John and Sherlock exchanged glances, not trusting this unexpected confession.

'Who are you?' John snapped, his voice sounding sharp with unease. The stranger turned to look him square in the eyes.

'My name is Lukas. Please, I can help you. I can tell you everything.'

…

_Betcha thought you'd never see this again did you?_

_If anyone is patient enough to still be reading this, I can only grovel on my knees for your unending mercy. Life really has gotten in the way._

_Next Chapter: The Sculptor's story. What happened nearly three decades ago in Germany to turn a young boy into the monster John knows today?_

_Godspeed my darlings x_


End file.
